Diamond in the Sky
by Water Solace
Summary: Reborn from the "Knowing Realm," Kya didn't expect her life to have any more meaning than the first time around. But when gravity delivers her to the surface and a familiar demon lord decides to keep her, her life becomes anything but meaningless. She just hopes her knowledge of the video game is enough to save herself...and perhaps even her new "Master" as well.
1. up above the world

**A/N: Yes. A new story and I haven't updated my other two. I'm sorry. I'll get back to those, I promise. But first I wanted to try my hand at the whole "reborn in so-and-so world" thing. But I wouldn't call this an SI. More like a semi-SI. Maybe.** _Not really._ **  
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 **Warnings: Violence, language, drama, angst, and eventually messed up romance. Rating may change later on thanks to a certain psychopath we all know and wonder why in the heck we love.**

 **So, without further ado...**

 **Diamond in the Sky**

* * *

 _I wish I could see you again._

 _Can you hear me where you are now?_

 _It's been so long, I wouldn't be surprised if you've forgotten me._

 _But if my soul could cry out, if its voice could reach you, would you listen? This very soul that battled the womb bringing it into a new world. The soul that fought so hard just to keep one aspect of its former life; these human ears that are like yours, and not the pointed ones of those strangers…_

 _Can you hear me? In this world so far away… I wish I could go back. I wish I could see you again._

 _I wish…_

 _…Can you hear me?_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

I can't remember how I died.

Strange. I thought something so life changing would stick with me. But no matter how hard I think on it, nothing comes up. What did I do last? What did I say last? I can barely recall coming home that day. It had been stressful; my job wasn't kind to me. I skipped dinner and went straight to bed. And that's it. It just…ends.

I never woke up in that world again.

The next I knew I was... Well, I can't remember my early days in this world either. It's all a blur. There are vague memories of crying, crawling, fingers digging into carpet, arms struggling, pulling a too small body along, and then wobbly legs standing, and even wobblier steps. My first solid recollection came when I was three or four years old…for the second time. It was then I realized what was going on, that I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Why am I little again? Where am I? Where's my family? They're gone.

I moved through my previous life like it was a dream. I had no hopes or aspirations, no ambitions or goals. I just woke up, went to work, came home, and over and over it continued. But I had my family. They were the only reason I—

Dizziness assaults me. My ribcage suddenly becomes a cage too confined; my heart beats against its bars, my lungs try to push out. A lump forms in my throat. It's hard to breathe. I can't think of the family I left behind without this happening.

I didn't know what world I was in until I turned five, standing under the Statue of the Goddess.

The word _Skyloft_ floated around in my head, bouncing off the bubbles in my brain, unable to stick. The realization was there, I just couldn't believe it.

Then I met my Loftwing.

I remember trembling in front of that dapple gray bird as his shadow descended over me. His wingspan stretched twice that of normal Loftwings. People were gathered all around, aweing at the seemingly new breed. Headmaster Gaepora, one of the first people I recognized, was there exclaiming over my 'magnificent' bird. He went quiet, however, when he realized something was…off.

My Loftwing isn't as great as he appears. Back then, there was no bond, no connecting moment between us. The bird shared the same glazed, distant eyes as me. The same nonchalance, the same 'my body is here but my mind is not' demeanor. And that hasn't changed.

So many years have gone by. I still can't believe I am where I am.

This life, this _new_ life…it doesn't seem like a life at all. Nothing seems real; everything is distant, like a far off dream. Is it a dream? If it is, it is the dream of death, because I've been under for too long. I still can't wrap my mind around it, and I can't explain it no matter how hard I try.

The wind blows through my hair, sending shaggy tresses into lackluster eyes. Once again I'm skipping class. I already went through school once; I'm not going through it again. I'm busy recounting my life anyway, trying to figure things out for the billionth time. The teachers will scold me later, I'm sure. But, honestly, I can't bring it in myself to care. I know these people, I know Skyloft. I know what their reactions will be, sometimes before even they do. I know their personalities. I know what to say. I know what not to say. And everything in between. Is anything surprising anymore? Is anything new?

I was in awe of the world when understanding first clicked. That quickly wore off. I've played the game so many times I've lost count; it was one of my favorites. But being a favorite isn't enough. The only thing I'm left in awe of now is the fact that I'm here…and the fact that, technically, I'm dead.

And the people here…I don't think they know how to take me.

I grimace as I recollect an interaction with one of the Skyloftians.

"Nothing ever fazes you, does it?" snapped that one brunette with the pigtails. Oriel or something—I can't even be bothered to recall names at this point.

"Guess not," I replied, not looking at her, not really paying attention. Had she been talking to me or something?

"Your Loftwing needs more attention. Wake up! Don't you care—?"

"I don't remember asking for a lecture." I interjected, narrowing my eyes. How much crap had I quietly taken in my previous life? Now this one, too? No. "And I know Turk better than anyone. He's the one that doesn't care; attention is wasted. Now take your pissy attitude and piss off."

Needless to say, I don't have many friends.

Not that it matters. I didn't have many friends in my previous life either. And these people? To me they may not even be real. Data on a screen. That's all they were in the other world, that's all they should be. Maybe that's all I am too…

As I lay amongst grass and flowers dancing to the tune of the breeze, a Remlit pushes its nose into my hair, luring me out of thoughts that lead nowhere. I smile and reach up to scratch behind its large fuzzy ear, soft as silk to the touch. More Remlits surround me. One is curled into my side, another at my hip, yet another lays across my knees. We pile together, watching white puffy clouds sail across open blue sky.

The small meadow I'm in isn't visible unless one is flying around the island. There's a wall that blocks it off from the Goddess Statue. It's not hard to climb, though I can clearly see the clawshot nodule Link will use in the future to get here. It's where I usually come when I want to get away from everyone, everything. Except for the Remlits, of course.

I can close my eyes here, pretend I'm back in my old world with my cats. My little brother will be home soon. Mom and Dad will be working late again, and I should probably scrounge up something for dinner…

I open my eyes and the illusion shatters.

The Remlit purrs, paws at my hair as if to distract me from what I've lost. It almost works.

Another distraction falls from the sky.

The thud sounds from above my head, and as I crane my neck I see suede boots and a raspberry-colored dress. Long golden hair billows in the breeze.

"There you are!" Zelda sighs, propping her hands on her hips. "Come on, Kya. You're missing the most important class of the day!"

"Oh." I blink stupidly. Why hasn't she given up on me yet? Out of all the people of Skyloft, Zelda is the only one who hasn't learned to steer clear of me. And, it's strange, but she feels more real than the others. Her and Link.

"Don't 'Oh' me. Come on, get up. The Wing Ceremony is only two weeks away! Don't you want to move up this year?" She marches her way to my side, a disapproving frown fixed to her face. "Or do you want to be held back again?"

"Eh. Whatever, I guess." I stretch, making no move to rise.

"Lazybones. You're worse than Link." She reaches down and latches onto my wrist. I'm hauled up before I can protest. The Remlits scurry away.

"Watch the cats," I hiss, tip-toeing around the creatures. Once clear, I drop like a rock and go limp, making her drag me. It's only fair. She disturbed my furry babies and hijacked naptime.

And then we get to the edge.

I scramble up, pull against her. "Hey—whoa, whoa! Stop it! Zel—I can't!"

I'm shoved. I'm not surprised, but I am offended. She knows I can't whistle.

As the wind screams in my ears, I frantically search for my little wooden replacement. I grapple at every pocket, claw at my neck, faintly remember putting it on a string. It's not there. My heart pounds and my lungs seize in sheer panic.

Unable to find it, I go to option two.

My banshee shriek fills the sky. I scream and scream and scream and I see through stinging eyes as Zelda dives for me with her violet Loftwing, determination blazing bright in both their eyes. Her bird narrows into a bullet and her long straight hair whips in a wild frenzy behind her, and her bright blue eyes squint against the biting gale. But she won't reach me, there's no way she'll get to me in time.

It's not until the cloud barrier almost swallows me—its foggy tendrils wrapping around me—that Turk finally deigns to come to the rescue.

I flop onto his back, the wind's breath howling horizontally instead of vertically. The dumb dapple gray then proceeds to nearly bowl Zelda and her Loftwing over.

"Sorry!" I call to her.

"What is wrong with you, Turk?!" Zelda points an accusing finger in my bird's direction. "Heed your master when she calls! Do you hear me? Heed your master!"

I laugh. Her words do nothing. Turk doesn't so much as blink in response.

"His name is Turk for a reason," I sing-song. Turk. It's short for Turkey. And, as far as I'm concerned, turkeys are the avian equivalent of donkeys. Stubborn, uncooperative, and mean. It describes Turk to a tee.

Piloting my bird is no easy feat. Honestly, I just let him go where he goes, only with the occasional nudging kick, because kicks are the only thing he somewhat regards. Other Skyloftians? They just have to lean in the direction they want to go. Their birds will also, you know, fly around obstacles. Mine, on the other hand, finds going around things too taxing. Going around? Pssh. Let's try smashing through it first.

Stupid Turkey.

Zelda and I land at the Academy. Well, she lands. I crash-roll in a heap after leaping off Turk. He didn't even have the decency to slow down for me.

"Jackass," I spit at the already gone bird. Hey, that's a good name for him too.

"Are you okay?" Zelda trots over, helps me up.

"Yeah, yeah—happens all the time." I say that but, really, I don't think I'll ever get used to falling. In my previous life I was deathly afraid of heights. In this world I might be desensitized due to…constantly being in the sky…but it's still jarring.

I put a hand over my chest. My heart still hasn't slowed down.

"Good. Let's go."

"Uh—that was abrupt. Nice to know you really care." I'm pushed towards the door of the Academy. "You know. Um. Actually, I really need to get back to those kittens."

Zelda raises an eyebrow. "Kittens? What are you—?"

"The cats, the—" I gesture wildly, as if the answer might be grabbed from thin air. "The baby Remlits."

"Remlings."

"Yeah, those." I back up from the entrance leading to doom and gloom and absolute boredom. "They really miss my company. I can feel—OW!"

"No you don't!" Zelda's fingers pinch around my earlobe, pulling mercilessly.

I'm forced inside. The smell of wood polish and flower baskets and earthy stone waft to my nostrils, and the warm lighting seems to give the door-lined hallway a homey glow. But it is not home, I remind myself. Not mine, and a part of me wants to tell Zelda to piss off so I can go back to what I was doing. I did that once, some time ago, and none too kindly. Zelda wasn't kind either when she, in turn, chucked her boot at my face. Remembering that, I reluctantly hold my tongue.

Abruptly, she pulls me to a stop before the curving stairway.

"Kya," she says seriously, her mouth set in a grim line.

Oh no, I think. Here we go again.

"Kya, you would be so pretty if you just brushed your hair."

"Oh yes, so pretty with my dirt brown hair and my dirt brown eyes—Hey!" I wince as she pinches harder.

Her discerning gaze travels up and down my lanky frame. "And some fresh clothes," she states matter-of-factly, nodding to herself more than to me.

"Okay. Okay, okay! Can you let go now, please?"

Zelda finally releases me, and I rub at my tender lobe. Glaring half-heartedly at her, my fingertips absently trace the contours of my rounded ear—a physical reminder that I don't really belong here. Though there are many aspects of my appearance that haven't changed. I suppose it's due to common genes, thriving in both worlds. Most people on this island have brown hair. Many have brown eyes. I'm no exception. My ears are the only thing to set me apart.

At least I'm not a total stranger when I look in the mirror.

I walk as slow as possible, trailing behind an impatient Zelda. Eventually she gets tired of tapping her foot and drags me by the arm.

My dorm room is bare except for the basics. Zelda throws open my dusty wardrobe and digs through it before I can tell her not to bother. Everything is the same in there: faded blue tunics, sleeveless, with fraying hems. She'll find gray or dingy white pants and loose leggings in the drawers underneath.

It's clear she isn't happy by the distressed sound she makes in her throat. "Nothing in here will do. Kya, where are all your good clothes?"

I shrug, fiddling with a hole in my current tunic. The tear is in the fabric at mid-thigh, about where the tunic ends. And if Zelda wants someone to yell at about it, she can thank Turk and all his rough landings.

She's glaring into my closet now, as if trying to set everything inside ablaze.

"All right," she says suddenly, whirling around. "I'm going to go find you something better from my room. Wait here."

"What? No. I'm not wearing your clothes."

Hands go to her hips again. "Kya."

"Zelda," I say back, with equal finality, as I'm retying the string I keep around my waist so the tunic doesn't look so much like a potato sack. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing."

Her deadpan stare almost makes me laugh. But then she keeps staring, and staring, and staring—Gah! She's doing it again!

"Okay, okay!" I put my hands in front of my face to shield from her penetrating gaze. "Stop looking at me like that!"

And just like that the staring stops, and a bright smile takes its place. She claps her hands together like an excited toddler and dashes for the door. Just before she leaves though, she turns to me, expression dead serious.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere. Kya?"

"Yeah." I sit in a chair with a crap-eating grin plastered on my face. "I'll be right here."

"Promise?"

"What are you, two? Yes, I promise."

She looks at me for a moment longer, and my grin almost breaks before she darts out the door like a rabbit on speed.

I'm out the window as soon as the door clicks shut.

* * *

I'm back outside, kicking pebbles as I walk, dodging around corners, sneaking in shadows of trees, shooting behind bushes whenever someone comes my way.

I don't feel like dealing with anyone. That and I don't want to leave a trail for Zelda to follow.

I can just picture her rushing back into my room with a dress she picked out draping over her arm, her smile dropping when she sees I'm not there. The image makes my chest tighten, and the next thing I know I'm scolding myself for being such a jerk. Seriously, would it have killed me to humor her? She's one of the only people I can come close to calling a friend on this too tiny, floating world.

I'm stuck arguing with myself, aimlessly walking up and down a beaten path. Should I go back? But I don't want to go to class. But Zelda was only trying to help. But is it worth hours of lecturing? But Zelda would be so proud if I just… With each new thought I change direction; to the Academy, away from the Academy. On and on it goes.

Until someone appears down the path from me. I look up from the dust I was scuffing at my feet and meet the piercing blue stare of Link. I freeze mid-stride.

Link showing up can only mean one thing. Either Zelda got tired of looking for me and sent him, or the Headmaster did.

Neither of us move, and it is only the wind that animates us. His dark golden hair tousles freely and the white sleeves of his shirt flap gently while my hair wisps into my face, sticks near my open mouth.

One moment we're both frozen, the next we explode into action. He starts chasing me before I start running, and I can hear his take-off grunt, meaning he's going fast as possible. My grungy black boots slam into the ground, but I both hear and feel Link's stronger strides overtaking me: his footfalls crushing the soil and gravel, sending subtle vibrations the closer and closer he gets. It isn't long before I'm tackled into the dirt.

With a good hold on my arm, he helps me up, even goes so far as to dust off my knees for me.

And then I'm promptly marched back to the Academy. He knows better than to let go of my arm even for a second.

I send him dejected frowns. I blink watery eyes. Nothing works. He just gives me a knowing smile and a look that says, "You really think I'll fall for that again?"

I fight to keep the smile from my mouth. I hate it when this happens, but it's next to impossible to get mad at Link. Well, it's impossible to _stay_ mad, let's put it that way. He's exceedingly kind. And strong. And determined. And patient. Especially with me.

He and Zelda are going to make really pretty babies someday…

And since Link's making me go to class, I decide to blurt that thought.

Is that the sound of someone choking on their own spit? Yes, yes it is. I even made him stumble for a second.

* * *

Did I say class? No, no, it's worse than that. I'm taken straight to the Headmaster's office.

Gaepora is pacing behind his desk; I'm sitting in the hot seat in front of it. My shoulders are scrunched, head down, eyes picking apart the Loftwing embroidered rug, hoping maybe the thread will come to life and fly me out of here. Why do they have to make such a big deal out of this? People skipped class all the time in my world.

The Headmaster stops his pacing, turns towards me with his hands clasped behind his back. His barrel chest and thick white brow make me think of a great horned owl, and his beady, discerning gaze has me feeling like a mouse.

"…I'm not quite sure what to do with you anymore, Kya," is all he says. For some reason it frightens me. I wish he'd just say I was confined to do bookwork in my room, like he usually does.

I don't speak. My heart twists in my chest.

"You…" He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully. "You just don't seem to care about anything. The Wing Ceremony is right around the corner, and you have yet to practice with your Loftwing—who needs the training most of all."

I squirm in my seat, find I can't make eye contact.

Headmaster Gaepora has always been kind to me. Sometimes it almost feels like he's trying to father me; always looking over my shoulder, always scolding me, and yet always searching for the least bit thing to praise—and I don't give much for that. Oh, you tied your shoes? Good job, Kya. You went to at least one class today? Good job! …But it is important to go to _all_ your classes, my dear. And on and on he goes.

I don't understand why he cares. He's not my father. My real father isn't in this world…and neither is the one who brought me into it.

The 'parents' I came from in this realm were killed not long after I was reborn. Resentment festers at the mere thought of them. Had they not conceived me, would I still be back in my own world? And then they had the gall to go off and die in the Great Storm. Before coming to live at the Academy, I had been passed from household to household.

I never got attached to anyone. Apparently, neither did anyone get attached to me.

Except, strangely, the man in front of me. …And his daughter.

Gaepora shuffles through some papers on his desk, eventually holding up two I recognize. They are the essays we had to do on the history of Skyloft, some of the only assignments I actually completed. The only twist is I wrote them in English. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I miss my native tongue. Or maybe it was to be spiteful. Towards who, I'm not sure.

"These"—Gaepora nods to the papers—"are written in an actual language, aren't they? When your instructors first saw them, they thought it to be gibberish. But upon closer inspection…" He turns the essays toward himself, eyes flickering between the two. "It's consistent. These are letters, words. Kya…"

His eyes bore into me, and I have to look down.

"Kya, tell me…"

I bite my lip, nearly drawing blood. Please don't guess it, I plead on the inside. I can't talk about it. You wouldn't understand. There's nothing you can do to take me back. Although on that last part, a hope blossoms forth, and a side of me wants him to know, to help. A side of me that can't bear to carry the burden of the past alone for one more second…

"…you created your own language, haven't you?"

The hope withers, leaving nothing but a gaping hole.

"Yes," I reply, voice as lifeless as my eyes. "Yes, I made up my own language."

Gaepora clears his throat. "You're an intelligent young woman, Kya. If you put forth the effort into your studies as well as you have with this, I have no doubt you'd make an exemplary knight…just like your parents were."

"…Yes."

There is silence, deafening, stretching out into the nothingness.

"You worry me, my dear," Gaepora spoke at last, quietly.

"I'm sorry." And I am, truly. It's just… What can I do about it? I can't put on a happy face, though heaven knows I've tried. I can't fight through the fog in my head, keeping me from seeing this world clearly, as a reality. I can't focus, I can't cooperate. I just—I just want out. I want to go home—my real home. The blinking lights of the city, the mountains and trees that span beyond it, the lines of lights, each one carrying people, drifting out on roads into horizons with no end. No end, unlike this world, with little islands in the sky that take us nowhere.

There are memories that I can never forget, even as I look out from a new cage. The lights from far distant worlds do not just disappear. I want to go home.

To my horror, hot liquid builds up in my eyes. I bow my head quickly and blink as fast as I can. My stringy hair falls forward, covering like a wolf spider's many legs.

"Go to your room, my dear. Rest, think things over. It will be all right." By the gentleness of his voice I know he saw, and I clench my teeth, baring pitiful fangs at a weakness I thought I could control. "But before you go…I'm afraid you must know I've decided to pull you from this year's Wing Ceremony. You simply aren't ready."

The punishment doesn't faze me in the slightest. I'm pretty sure—no, I know this is the year Link wins it.

He'll be going down to the surface soon.

Me? I'll be going with him, no matter what anyone says. I can't stay on this tiny island any longer. The Wing Ceremony, my punishment—I couldn't care less. The only thing I'll be thinking over in my room is how much help I'm going to be to Link. I won't state the obvious like Fi—I know things. I know everything. We'll get through the journey with flying colors. We'll play Ghirahim's game. We'll crush Demise. And then…and then…

And then what?

I shake the thought from my mind and stand up from my seat, striding to the door without so much as a backward glance at Gaepora.

Whatever. I'll deal with the 'and then' when I get to it. Right now I need the adventure. I need something to wake me up—to make me feel…like I'm actually alive.

 _Is this…really real? Is it a dream? If it is…_

Link is waiting outside the door like a sentry on guard duty. I wonder if he had his ear pressed to the wood, listening. He glances at me, but his eyes don't tell me much. To think I'll soon be seeing him in his trademark green tunic. I try to pull off a smile, but it comes out as a quivering smirk.

His stare flashes with worry. "Are you…crying?"

"What?" I snap in alarm, running swift fingers under my eyes. "No. No. Why would you think that? Are you excited for the Wing Ceremony?" I start backing up from him at the subject change. "You should practice with your bird. You'll be great. Um, I…I need to go to my room. I'm kinda grounded. Bye!"

I race to my dormitory, my mind fully intent on finishing that sailcloth I've been working on.

When I shut the door and pull the cloth from under my bed, I get a glance at myself from the mirror.

The corners of my eyes are red and glistening.

Blinking sheds the water and tears fall. The next thing I know hiccups are beating out of my chest, hands cover my face, trying to smother the emotion, and the most pathetic mewling noises drift into the air. The sound of my sobbing boils rage, bubbling, bubbling, until it spills over.

I pick up one of my never-opened textbooks and fling it with all my might. To my despair the mirror does not shatter, it merely spider-webs as the book bounces off its smudged surface. Multiple reflections of a vaguely familiar girl all look back at me, eyes accusing, lips twisted in snarls, stray hairs sticking up in all directions.

Her small, rounded nose. Her splotchy red-bitten lips. Her wide eyes that should be innocent. So similar, but not me. Not me. I'm dead.

I turn the mirror around.

I cannot withstand the sight of her anymore.

* * *

It's just a plain sailcloth. Nothing fancy, no embroidery or markings livening the white fabric. It's almost done, but I'm checking and rechecking it and will probably do so right up until I need to use it. There's no way I'm falling from that height without being sure this thing's going to hold me up.

I was never good at sewing. I never had to do so in my previous life. We had everything: a well-furnished condo high up in the big city, the newest clothes and gadgets…and unbearably absent parents who worked nonstop to pay for it all. My brother and I…we took care of each other a lot. Well, when we weren't fighting. I wonder how he's doing now. How long has it been? My soul must be approaching forty years old, or maybe it already is. I was twenty-five when…I didn't wake up. My current body is nearly twenty now.

So…my little brother is forty and I'm turning twenty for the second time. Awesome.

Has he gotten married? Does he have kids? Would I have been an aunt?

My sore fingers stop, the needle remains jabbed into a corner of the fabric. I slump over, forehead touching my knees. The pressure in my eyes starts building again, and I'm forced to change the direction of my thoughts.

I'm going with Link on his adventure, I tell myself. I'm going to have fun—we're going to tear through the surface and save everyone. It'll be so…much…fun.

Or maybe I'll go with Zelda instead. After all, she was by herself until…the second temple? Yeah, yeah, she didn't meet up with Impa until the Earth Spring or something. Maybe I'll go with her. Heck, I could help both her and Link. No problem.

The clock ticks away. It always goes faster when I don't want it to, and when I glance up at it it's almost eight in the evening. I trip in my hurry to tuck the sailcloth back under the bed, bumping my chin on the mattress. I rush out to the hall, just remembering to shut the door behind me, intent on catching Zelda before she goes to sleep. The nagging feeling in my gut won't go away until I apologize.

One knock, two knocks, three… I press my ear to the door, hear shuffling inside, and then a quiet, "Come in."

"Oh, sorry—I'll just—" I make to shut the door, but she gestures me in. She has a shimmery lavender robe on, decorated with white floral print, and her hair is slicked down with moisture. I caught her just after a bath, it seems.

I stand there, shifting foot to foot, hands wringing behind my back so she won't see.

"Is there something you wanted?" Her tone isn't unkind, but it makes me flinch all the same.

"Look, I'm sorry. Okay? I'm just…" I sigh, stare downcast. "I'm just a horrible person."

There's quiet blanketing the space between us. Zelda blinks like I said something eccentric. "You're not horrible. Selfish and inconsiderate, sure. But not horrible. Why would you say that?"

"…I don't know."

Yes I do. I'm such a liar.

Zelda looks at me for a long moment. I don't return the stare; my gaze is locked in the lower corner. The whisper of her robe registers, the clapping of dresser doors, and then a dress is being held up in front of me.

"You're going to wear this tomorrow, got it?" Her no-nonsense tone is in use, and I have no fire left to fight with.

"Okay," I say softly, obediently.

I take the light blue dress and press it against me. The hem ends just below my knees, as I'm not much taller than Zelda. The butterfly sleeves are short, but loose and flowy, and the neckline is simply rounded. Modest, not too tight, my favorite color. I realize she kept my likes and dislikes in mind when picking it out, and it makes my heart feel squeezed in a way I'm not used to.

"Thanks," I whisper, voice suddenly lost. "I promise I'll wear it. For real this time."

"You better." She does that hands to the hips pose when she's serious about something, but there's softness in her eyes, and a smile.

Back in my room, I lay the dress over a chair as if it were made of precious glass.

The next morning the dress is donned. A few strokes of the brush tapers my hair. It's more than I usually do.

I see Zelda's golden blonde head from my seat in the back of the classroom. She twists in her chair and sends me a grateful smile. Why does she do that? I'm the one who should be grateful. Grateful she even bothers caring about my stupid self. It's enough to make me put forth some effort. I force a smile. I talk with her and Karane at lunch. I actually pay attention to the instructors. I go through the day like a typical good student, the kind I used to be.

When sparring class rolls around, it's a different matter.

"Kya!" Eagus, the sword instructor and Knight Commander that never takes off his helmet, barks at me. "Ease up on those slashes! This is a training hall, not a battlefield!"

I pay him as much heed as I would to a grain of salt. Though I do feel bad for Fledge, whose scrawny arms aren't even holding the sword level. My spaghetti arms aren't doing too well either, but at least I make up for it in aggression.

"Come on, Fledge," I taunt softly, trying to get him angry, trying to push him to better himself. "Are you going to let a girl in a dress beat you?"

I swipe, using strength from my shoulders to throw momentum into the blade. It clangs and screeches with Fledge's before the latter's is knocked out of his hands and skitters to the ground.

"Kya!" Eagus stomps over. "Enough! Give me the sword. You're done."

I glare. "What! How are we supposed to get better if we don't get serious?"

The sword is snatched from my grasp. "No arguments. Leave."

I can feel the eyes of the other students trained on me. Eyes disproving, eyes of contempt, some of confusion, and one of pity. I want to kick Pipit for the first one and slap Karane for that last one.

I can't stand it.

"Whatever!" I barely manage to stop myself from spewing curses and insults, instead putting all my energy into slamming the door as I depart.

These stupid people, I seethe. These stupid, stupid people. None of them let me have a challenge. None of them push me, not really, not when it counts. None of them truly care, none stop to see what's wrong with me—Oh, they know there is something wrong, yes, but no one takes the time to figure out just what it is. No one wants to bother fixing it. Oh, but they want me to fall in line and do as told.

The cool outside air does little to calm me. My heart hammers, my cheeks burn red, my breathing won't even out.

And then I hear Groose's voice.

"What's a little shrimp like you going to do in there? Nothing! You couldn't wield a sword to save your life."

Link stands at the edge of the main building with Groose's bulk barring his path to the training hall.

I don't think about it. I pick up a good sized rock, and I hurl it at the back of that stupid pompadour head as hard as I can.

Then I pick up another, and another. I keep throwing, I keep chucking with all my might, like I'm trying to turn the rocks into bullets.

"Bastard!" I shout with bared teeth. "Bastard, bastard, _bastard_!"

I don't even realize when I revert to English. I just keep screaming, Groose shields himself with his arms, and Link runs at me. A voice in the back of my mind yells for me to stop in conjunction with Link. But I can't seem to grasp myself. Link, however, does. He wraps around me like a band of iron, pinning my arms to my sides.

"What's your problem?!" Groose stands to his full height, pointing a fat finger at me. "You mutant freak!"

He's referring to my ears, but I'm not ashamed of them like he thinks. I am trapped in Link's hold but that doesn't stop the grin I send, toothy and vicious in its glee.

What am I doing? Stop. It's the voice again, the one from the back of my mind. My voice.

 _Stop. Look at yourself._

The grin falters, replaced by horror-widened eyes. I struggle away from Link, run down the path. I run and run and run. But where is there to run to on this constrained island? I keep running anyway. I hear someone's footfalls behind me, never letting up, never letting me out of their sight.

I stop at the edge of the island. I look down into the clouds below. A part of me wants to jump. Jump and not call for my bird.

Link's palm grips my shoulder. "Kya…"

"What?!" I snap, but then lower my head, my voice. "…I'm sorry."

Neither of us says anything after that. There is just silence.

Silence and the wind, howling somewhere below the clouds.

* * *

… _Hello? Is…is someone…calling?_

… _._

 _What is it? Can you speak up? I can't hear you. There's too much static. It's the clouds, I think. They're interfering with the signal._

… _._

… _.Are you still there? Are you…looking for someone? Well, it's not me. Wrong number. Heh. What?_

… _._

 _Hello? Is…someone else there?_

* * *

He stayed with me. He wouldn't leave me alone on the edge. Not even for a moment. (I wish he would.)

It takes too long for me to calm down. He devises a plan to take my mind elsewhere.

And that's how we ended up swinging at each other with sticks.

"Guard your flank," Link tells me, and I listen, because I know he knows what he's talking about.

He's winning; he taps me with the stick more than I can get him. Even so, I give him a good workout. I dodge, left, right. Leap back, leap forward. Duck down, jump up. My frame is slight, the target is small, therefore harder to hit.

But I still have one trick up my sleeve. I've been waiting to do this.

When Link brings his stick down in a vertical slash my palm comes up to meet it, fingers closing around the rough bark. I don't let go.

"Hey, cheating," he calls, tugging the stick in my grip.

"Cheating?" I say with a cheeky smile. "But anything goes in a real battle. You should be wary of this happening."

He tilts his head to the side, brows raised. "You couldn't catch a real sword like that."

"No, I couldn't," I reply. "But who says someone else can't? What if you fight demons?"

His brows scrunch low at that. But I know he'll understand. Later. In the meantime we play the game, the game of catching blades.

After our practice session I go straight to my room. Relief floods me when night falls without a single knock on my door. I wasn't looking forward to explaining myself to Zelda, but I'll probably have to do that tomorrow. Link's a good guy, considerate and tactful, but she's the one person he _will_ tell about my behavior.

I sneak out after midnight, grab a snack from the deserted kitchen. I'm about to leave when a glint catches my eye. Shiny metal twinkles at me from the knife rack, and thinking back to when my sword was wretched from my hand, I stalk over and slip out the biggest one. The carving knife. Or is it called a chef's knife? I don't know. But it's about as big and long as my forearm. I hide it first in the folds of my dress, then in my room.

The bath I waited hours (and hours and hours—does that stupid man realize he doesn't have that much hair to wash?) to get into does nothing to soothe me. I can't sleep; I toss and turn deep into the night.

As the clock strikes four in the morning, I give up, change back into my tunic. The knife is tucked away in my waistband, down the small of my back. I snatch my forgotten whistle from the bedside table, secure its string around my neck.

My footsteps are slow, soft. The front exit creaks, and then I'm outside, the night air crisp and calming. The stars glitter above and various nocturnal insects sing their melodies.

And then Pipit comes around the corner.

I move to duck behind the wall, but he's already seen me. How could I forget about his patrols? _Idiot_.

"Kya." He approaches me. "Where do you think you're going this time of night?"

"Um, technically it's morning," I answer. "And I'm going for a stroll. So…"

He sidesteps, blocks me from going around him. "Don't you know it's dangerous out at night? There are monsters about. Go back inside and wait 'til morning."

My eyes narrow, my mouth presses into a thin line. "No."

I try to dart around him. Again I'm blocked.

"Ugh!" I throw my hands up. "Look, it's not a big deal! I know how to defend myself. Seriously, what's going to hurt me? The bats? You wanna know how to get by them? You beat them with a stick. A stick! It's not hard. Your grandmother could do it!"

He crosses his arms, leans in. "There are more than just bats—"

"Ooo, what? You scared of the jelly chus? Again, a stick'll take care of those."

He still doesn't move aside.

Something grates inside me. Too small, too confined. I need out. I need off. I'm trapped. Before I know it my hand slithers around to my back, palm is met with the smooth handle of the knife.

I stop.

What am I doing? Just…just what am I thinking about doing?

I stare into azure eyes, take in the brown hair sticking up from his hat, the yellow knight uniform. This is Pipit. This is the guy Karane loves. Good, responsible Pipit who works his butt off to provide for himself and his do-nothing mother.

And right now he's just looking out for me. And I'm…

"Y-you know," I stammer, "you're right. You're right."

He blinks in surprise, leans back. "Really?"

I nod, slow and solemn. "Yeah. You…you're a good guy. Thanks for—thanks." I finish awkwardly. Then, without a word further, I bolt back inside.

I go out the upstairs exit instead. I make sure Pipit is nowhere around when I jump to the ground.

The bats that swoop at me are beat off with sticks. The chus that goop on my boots are kicked away.

The Remlit that crosses my path scratches and hisses. "Hey, sweet-bee," I coo in face of its snarls. When it chases me, I giggle and squeal like a little girl in faux danger.

But I leave all that behind when I reach the edge. I look down and my mind wanders to places it shouldn't.

I parade back and forth along the drop-off, blowing into the shrill little whistle, waiting, waiting. Turk takes his sweet time showing up. Though I should be thankful he does at all—most Loftwings won't fly at night.

The stars that glitter in the velvet blue sky never fail to take my breath away. Turk ascends, higher, higher, and I don't even have to ask him to. He knows. It feels like I can reach out and touch the shimmering canvas expanding above us.

I lay my belly down on his soft feathers, run my fingers through the tuffs. Unlike other Loftwings, Turk doesn't need someone constantly micromanaging his movements. He lets me relax, he takes control. Heh, he's like that regardless.

Pinks and yellows and magentas bleed into the sky with the rising sun.

The sky isn't so bad, I think. Not when I'm out here like this. Free and unrestrained.

Turk jerks to the side, nearly sending me rolling off his back. Confusion morphs to understanding when a giant worm-like flying insect shoots up through the air, narrowly missing me and Turk. What is that thing doing out of the storm head?

With a single swoop of his great wings, Turk lurches beyond the monster's reach. But then, curiously, he lets it catch up before once again lunging forward. He's playing with it, I realize, and laugh. He dangles himself in front of the creature's pinchers, then dives to the side before it can touch us. Again and again he does this.

"Dork." I swat Turk playfully. Then my eyes zip to the outcropping of rock before us. "Hey! No, don't—!"

He slams his side into the rock face, bouncing off it like a ping pong, without so much as a flinch. I cling to his feathers, clumps caught in my fingers, for dear life. The wind swirls violent all around me, whipping my hair in my eyes, and I bury my face in feathers to escape.

There's another jerk, screaming wind, and the next thing I know my fingers grasp thin air. Disbelief floods me as my eyes open to behold the open blue sky above. My entire being feels when gravity snatches me in its pull—the lurch of my gut, the throb of my head, the jump my heart makes to my throat. My panic tears out a scream.

My wild eyes latch onto Turk, who pivots and dives for me. I cannot look away from him. The glazed look in his gaze is lost, and a fire like I've never seen ignites in those murky irises. He narrows himself into a bullet. I reach up for him.

The fog of clouds rise to envelope me.

The last thing I think before the cold mist encases me is that I left my sailcloth under my bed.

The shrieking wind steals my breath, and the vision of Turk tunnels, before blackness swallows my sight whole.

When I wake up on the surface alive I scream. Not because of fear of where I am, nor is it a scream of triumph on survival.

I scream because, beside me, lies the broken body of my bird.

* * *

 _Everything I've seen twice. Everything I thought I knew. But now, now what am I to do?_

 _Down, down, down, I've fallen. If you couldn't hear me up so high, how will you ever hear me down here?_

 _Hear me, hear me, please...hear me._

* * *

 **A/N: Wow, that was a long one. Sorry. Or not, depending if you like long chapters or not.**

 **I've read a lot of other "reborn" fics, from a lot of different fandoms. And you know, not once did I read one where the main character was seriously messed up at being ripped away from all he/she knows and loves and thrust into an entirely new world. Granted, a world they know, but new all the same. I decided to implement that. I'm trying to be realistic as possible. I hope I'm doing okay.**

 **Second reason for this story was to test my ability to write in first-person present-tense. Hopefully I haven't botch that.  
**

 **And don't worry, everyone's favorite sadist comes in next chapter. Until then, please let me know what you think? *puppy eyes* What?! Wait, where are you going? No one can resist puppy eyes! ...Dang it.**


	2. master

**Chapter 2**

The mammoth trees, with their twisting bark and thick trunks and fanning canopies, speckle the forest floor with shade. All save for one spotlight opening. The snapped branches point down into the circle of light like accusing fingers of disgraced judges, their leafy robes torn to shreds.

Turk lies in the center of the carnage, his wings bent in odd, sharp angles. He lies very still, like a picture frozen in time. The image of him gets wavy, blurs, and then something hot streaks down my cheeks.

When he takes in a breath I cry for a whole other reason.

"Turk, Turk!" I lunge to him. "It's okay. It's okay—I'll fix it! Just hang on."

There is blood coming from the nasal passages in his beak, blood coloring his tongue as he gasps.

I don't have much time. He doesn't have much time.

Trees speed by as twigs and thorns swipe at my face and arms. I bulldoze through, completely ignorant of the popping branches or the burning scratches being left in my skin.

I know there are mushrooms down here—I saw them in the game: giant ones, spotted ones, glowing ones. I need the spores, the spores of….which one?

I skid to a stop, boots digging into the dirt. The path and clearing I'm in is all too familiar, but…it's different somehow too. Too large, too real. My hearts pounds in urgency, and I blindly rush from one mushroom to the next. Fumbling, I claw at the regenerating spongy flesh of a spotted mushroom, dash towards and claw at a blue one. The dust of their spores gathers and coats my hands, my forearms. _Hurry_ ¸ a voice screams at me.

I spin in circles. Panic stabs me when I can't—No, no it was this way. No—this way! I see the braches I broke through and I follow the damaged foliage back to my bird.

His gasps are slowing, his eyes dimming.

I stand in front of him, shaking in bewildered terror. How am I supposed to administer this? How am I—? A frustrated cry tears out of me, and I'm down on my knees, shoving my spore-coated hands in his mouth, pushing down his throat until all the spore dust is cleared off me. He gurgles and chokes, cawing weakly when I retract saliva and blood covered arms.

I run, run, run. I repeat the cycle of tearing at the mushrooms, garnering spores, returning to my bird. Over and over.

By the time the sun sets I am covered in sweat and blood. Relief overwhelms and tears leak down my face as I listen to Turk's even breathing.

* * *

I'm familiarizing myself with these woods. I know Faron from the game but in the here and now everything seems so much larger. Titan trees loom high, shadow and light dance with the leaves, making the ground itself seem alive, and mushrooms twice my height and three times my width make it feel like I'm in a world of giants.

The biggest tree of them all looms in the distance. I dare not attempt the trek; it's too far from Turk.

I spend my time gathering spores, picking the fleshy petals of the red heart flowers, and knocking down those strange gourd-like fruits that hang in trees.

Everything goes to my bird. The rumbling and painful clinch of my stomach goes unaddressed.

I've set his wings with sticks and vines. The kitchen knife made it with me, and it's been indispensable, from slicing vines, to cutting up the fruit, to swiping at the bats that dared to bother us.

The sun goes up, it goes down, darkness blankets us, hides us. I count the days with the knife too, drawing it in tallies through a tree's bark. They build up, one, two, three, four, five…

I wonder if anyone's looking for us.

Finding a small spring dribbling from an outcropping of mossy rocks was a huge relief, and from it I gather water in hollowed scoops of bark. I tried collecting the drips with the gourd-fruit, but the skin goes bad and sours it.

Dirt clings to me, twigs stick in my hair, and I scrub my face with the miniscule trickle. I find myself wishing for more water. I know where it is, but I can't go for a dip in the waters at the base of the great tree. No, I won't go that far from my bird. I'm busy trying to cover up the evidence of our being here anyway. I sweep away footprints and erect barriers with leafy branches. It takes so long to saw through the thicker branches, and my heart keeps jumping, screaming, _hurry, hurry,_ with each beat. My frame bends under the weight of carrying too much, my back stings. But I don't care.

I know what's down here. I have to hide my bird. I have to hide me.

I try to take only fallen branches, but when those are unavailable I try to make cuts in inconspicuous places. I doubt any Bokoblin will notice a fresh and cleanly sawed stump on the trees, but….

It's not the Bokoblins I'm scared of.

This isn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be with Link when this happened. I was supposed to…

I don't even have a proper weapon.

I can't seem to stop shaking, I can't seem to catch my breath no matter how long I sit idle. So I don't.

Day six, day seven. Is no one looking for us?! The anger builds, the resentment festers. When Zelda disappears, they'll be sending Link down here in a day. Everyone will worry, everyone will hope, everyone will pray.

For me? Nothing.

Okay, fine if no one cares for me. I wasn't exactly the best person I could be, but Turk… What about my Loftwing?

I do my best to get him better, but it's taking so long. The red flowers help, the spores do too. But their effects don't work instantly like in the game. Am I doing something wrong? Should I be administering them differently? It's now I start wishing I paid more attention to Owlan's teachings, but my stupid self was too busy comparing the fair-haired elf man to freakin' Legolas. I even called him that, and he looked at me like I was special in the head. He was right. I am. And if I'd paid attention to Horwell's classes, too, then I might've learned another way to administer medicine to a Loftwing. Unfortunately, I was also too busy comparing him to Aragon.

Hunger claws at my gut like a rabid beast. I eat some of the fruit, but not a lot. I leave most for Turk. The fruit isn't as abundant as the game shows. Big surprise. Maybe I should get it through my head this isn't a game. Starvation and my wounds make it clear.

Foraging for food, I make the mistake of stepping on an unknown plant.

"KWEEEOOO!"

"OH GOD NO!" Curses are cut off as a scream tears out my throat, and I fall back on my butt as a Kikwi shambles away into the brush. My hand clutches the fabric over my heart. That little…! Stupid thing! I wouldn't have even known it was there if it hadn't popped up like that! Standing up, I shout after the Kikwi, "You idiot! Hide somewhere out of the way next time!"

Upon hearing my voice echo, I slap a hand over my mouth, looking around to see if anyone heard, and quickly run for my own hiding spot.

Day eight. Turk is able to lift his head. It's then I feel safe enough leaving him to go bathe in a spring near the great tree. The smell of a dead rat follows wherever I go, and I desperately need to get rid of it. Not even the earthy smells of the forest and the clean, fresh scent of the misty spring cover the stench emitting from me. Kneeling at the edge of the water, I shed my clothes, wash them first. The tunic, though faded, is a dark enough blue the dirt and grass stains don't show. The blood stains, however, dot both tunic and gray pants. They won't come out.

I leave my clothes to sun on a rock, but take my knife with me. The knife is always with me. No exceptions.

It's a hazy early morning and the water is freezing. Goosebumps break out all over my skin. I grit my teeth and trudge on, the promise of cleanliness pushing. Sand is used as a scrub to get all the dirt and particles off. I do my best to clean my teeth. Then it's just the water. I go to the small waterfall and stand under it, my breath threatening to expel at the frigid strikes, my body shaking uncontrollably. But it's when I step out from under the flow that my hearts stops.

Over at the rock, examining my clothes, is a red creature.

The fog shrouding the area saves me from exposure, but it's drifting, clearing away. The sun shines through in wavy increments.

My teeth are bared, my brow comes down sharply. A rage squeezes my heart, expands my lungs with hot air. The she-wolf in me bears down on the intruder, and says: Those are my things. This is my area. And you are far too close to my bird's hiding spot.

Granted my bird is actually quite a ways away, but in the moment, it feels like that monster being anywhere in Faron is too close to Turk.

And I won't stand for it.

I wade quietly, feel the wet sand squelch between my toes, anger building because of the forced slowness. Building, building, until it explodes when I reach the water's edge. My bare feet are silent, my knife is poised. I slash down the Bokoblin's back and it lets out a crying shriek. I slash and slash and slash. The monster turns and brings up its cleaver to block, but I already know the drill. I swipe low when it guards high, I swipe high when it guards low, and when it guards to the side, I stab, stab, stab.

Blood splatters everywhere, and there's a side of me that seizes in horror.

The Bokoblin falls to its back, cleaver clattering to the side, little clawed hands raised, shaking, in front of its face.

The dripping red blade I hold before it is quivering, too. I stare at the creature, eyes wide, my taut lips falling slowly back to sheath my teeth.

It must have been the pray-like gestures it was making with its hands, it must have been the way it was shaking, the pained little moans it was making.

I do nothing but watch as it gets up and hobbles away.

I've hurt things. I've cut things. I've thrown rocks and fists at people. But never have I killed. Not even an ant, if I could help it.

Fear at what I could've done, fear at what could have been done to me, bubbles up and spills over my cheeks. It's like with Groose and Pipit all over again. What am I doing—what was I about to do? I didn't want to hurt anyone, I certainly don't want to kill anyone. I was just scared, I was angry.

There is blood all over me.

I throw myself back into the water, not realizing until later that letting that Bokoblin go was the worst thing I could've done.

* * *

I usually curl into Turk's side when night falls, his feathery down keeping the shivers at bay, but tonight I do not sleep. I do not shut my eyes; I'm reluctant to even blink.

Who do the monsters report to? Who do the monsters answer to? I know the answer.

I…I was supposed to be with Link. I was supposed to be at his side when faced with…

But I am alone. Alone with an injured bird that cannot yet fly.

I took care to erase my footprints, I eased around the forest as not to disturb even a blade of grass. I am hidden, we are hidden. It's all right, I tell myself. It's all right.

 _Don't panic._

Every noise made in the night startles me. Every insect, every breath of wind, every whispering leaf, every creaking tree.

I am still shaking when the sun crests the horizon. Sunrise does not mean safety. But at least Turk opens his eyes at the light, and it is with great relief I see him move his wings, if only slightly. More red flower petals, more spores, and then I'm loosening the vines. But only a little so he can move a bit more. He still needs the stability of the splints.

I reach for another fruit piece, only to grab hold of the palm-like leaves I was keeping them on. Empty, I bemoan.

A debate takes place in me. I want to stay under cover. But my stomach tightens and twists and growls. My bird is no better. His eyes are brighter, more alert, but his weak caw is what finally sends me out to scavenge for more food.

I dart around tree trunks, I crawl under bushes and pick through thorns. Anything to stay off the main path.

My eyes span the distance up a looming tree to where a fruit hangs. From the ground the tree looks like could take me back to the sky, though it isn't the great tree. My fists clench, and I will the shaking in my limbs to stop. I scale the tree, using branches as foot and hand holds. At one point, when nothing presents itself for a step, I koala the trunk.

It's when I'm in reaching distance of the fruit that I hear the hornets.

If you don't bother them, they won't bother you, repeats the mantra my mother—real mother—taught me one day in the city park. I loved going to the park, loved climbing on the rocks and the trees, loved pretending I was on an adventure. But that was then, that was when I wasn't struggling for survival.

The hornets take notice despite being shunned and dive for me. Stinging, stinging, stabbing—Stop! I scream, lunge for the fruit, and fall with it in my arms.

Branches give resounding cracks and pops as I hit them on the way down. Pain explodes all over me, the fruit is crushed into slimy pieces in my arms.

Rage boils the blood roaring through my veins. The knife is pulled, and what's left of my rational mind through the haze of anger is thankful the thing didn't stab me on the way down. It did cut me, however, right down the base of my back, and it only serves as fuel to my frenzy. I swing the blade wildly, unaware of any hits or misses. Exhaustion does not stop me. I keep slashing, swiping, until I realize I'm doing so at empty air. The hornets have already retreated.

"Bastards," I hiss, scooping up what's left of the fruit, and then I'm gone, running back to my bird.

I'm almost to him. I glance over my shoulder in paranoia. It is then I slam into a rock, which I could've avoided if I wasn't being so stupid. I fall on my butt, I move to get up, only to plop back down because…

My heart freezes, my entire body freezes.

That's not a rock, I realize. That is not a rock. It just felt like one.

Dark, dark, dark eyes look down on me. White hair that plays a sinister version of peek-a-boo with the left side of his face, the red mantle cape with folds of fabric like a wolf's bloodied fangs, the white skin-tight…thing...he wears with the diamond cut-outs.

It's him. It's Ghirahim. It's who I've been trying so painfully to avoid, and he's found me. I'm dead.

"How curious," he says, the smile he wears not matching with the deadly air around him. "I thought I sensed something, some strange fluctuating aura. So small"—He suddenly jerks down into a weird crouching pose, and I fight to keep from flinching—"and insignificant one moment, then"—He jumps back up—"so large and loud the next. 'What could it be?' I wondered. Then when my little friend came and told me about a human in the forest, well, I simply had to come see for myself."

My bones feel like unbending stone. I don't think I could move even if I wanted to. I don't even blink, just stare like some wide-eyed wombat.

"And what do I find?" He leans down, reaches out, fear stabbing my heart, and flips a lock of my messy hair. "Nothing but a filthy little rat."

My teeth bare of their own accord.

The demon chuckles. "But don't worry. I won't kill you just yet. I think I'll play with you first."

It is that line that finally gets me moving. I whirl up, leap backwards. A hiss escapes my gritted teeth, and my fingers close over the handle of the knife at my back.

Ghirahim looks nothing but amused.

My expression lessens, softens. The comprehension slowly dawns that, no matter how many times I slash at this guy, I won't be able to hurt him. I do not hold the Goddess Sword. I do not hold a sword at all. I hold a freaking kitchen knife.

I'm dead. I'm dead.

…But I've always been dead, haven't I?

A laugh tickles deep in my throat. What am I scared of? Am I not still the same girl who looked down from the edge of Skyloft and thought of jumping? Am I not still the girl who died long before she was born into this world? He can kill me. He can kill me all he likes. I'm already dead.

I laugh full-out now. A gleeful, happy laugh that should be heard from a schoolgirl on her birthday, not her deathday.

Ghirahim is no longer smiling. He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowing, brow lowering, as if he's being faced with a rather odd math problem.

"Yes," I say, grinning far too wide. "Yes, send me back! Send me home, Ghirahim, back to the other side."

I clasp my blade, bring it up to my face, hiding my smile with it, because there's a side of me that doesn't want this. The side of me that screams self-preservation.

And it reminds me of my bird.

I beat down the urge to even let my eyes travel over to his direction, hidden deep in the brambles and leaves I piled high.

"Come on then," I say, voice suddenly high-pitched, afraid, yet manic with an unidentifiable glee. I walk backwards. "Come play."

The demon lord is still looking at me like I've told him heaven is earth and earth is actually heaven or something. But then he follows me, walking at that sedated pace I know all too well from the first boss battle of the game. Except he doesn't disintegrate his cloak. I guess I'm not worth even that much.

"You know," he says casually, like we're both out for a morning stroll, "a little part of me was hoping you might be the spirit maiden. But, no, the aura just doesn't match." He lifts his hand, index finger and thumb poised to catch.

"Oooo," I coo, then get serious. "So sorry, but Zelda won't be falling until the day of the Wing Ceremony. You'll have to wait."

His eyes narrow in that confused, calculating way again.

"Does that make you angry?" I goad, a smile of anticipation snaking onto my face. "Outraged? Furious? Sick with anger?"

He tilts his head again, as if considering. "No, actually. Just disappointed."

I blink, smile falling. "Oh."

Then I lunge with the knife, delivering a single quick swipe. I'm not surprised when he catches the blade. I let go and leap back. I'm not stupid enough to play a pulling game of strength with him. I'm not Link; I don't have his muscles.

"Though I am curious"—I freeze when I realize Ghirahim's not in front of me anymore. The back of my head hits his chest, and then he's leaning down and whispering in my ear—"how you know my name, sky child. Or how you think you know when the spirit maiden falls."

My own knife is brought up to my throat.

"It doesn't matter," I croak, more to myself than to him. "You can't change destiny. She'll fall no matter what I do or say and you—you won't get close to her until the—Skyview Temple. So piss—off!" I slam my elbow back into him, only to nearly break my own bone. In quick desperation I dive to the side, the blade of the knife leaving a shallow slice on my departure.

I stumble away, grasp at my neck. Blood seeps sluggishly through my fingers. I like to think my glare is potent, but it does nothing to diminish the demon's smile.

"Interesting," is all he says. He gives my knife a disdainful sneer before chucking it at me.

I dodge too late—the knife catches me in the side, opening a small gash. I cannot stop my scream. A scream that somehow morphs into manic laughter. I clutch the wound, clutch my knife, and I'm back to my feet. I'm already dead anyway! the dominate voice in my head yells. Smaller, smaller, in the back of my mind, a voice says for me to stay alive, _stay alive_.

"Rah!" I dash at the demon, slash out. I don't care that the knife does nothing, doesn't even leave a scratch. To and fro I rush in a game of attack and evade. I know his moves, and as long as I keep my head clear I can dodge.

We play this game, this game, cause that's all it is, isn't it. That's all it is. He's focused on hitting me now, and the fact he can't seems to make him smile for some reason. He watches me as I start moving, reacting to an attack I shouldn't see coming, but I do, I do.

He charges at me, I do the same to him, but at the last possible moment I'm rolling under his reach and I spin around to slice him in the back.

It does nothing. Nothing. But I did hit him and, for me, that counts as a victory.

He comes back around and backhands me across the face. I roll away, rush up. I smile through the blood coming from my nose and mouth. I'm going to die, die, die—I don't care!

 _Stay…alive…_

The bushes crackle, and my grin falls, shatters.

Turk bursts from the undergrowth, his eyes alight with a blazing fire of wrath, his wings arching upwards, stretching and snapping the splints and vines. The caw he lets loose sounds more like a roar, the battle cry of an eagle. He looms down on Ghirahim, who merely reacts with a laughing smirk, a black blade appearing in his hand.

"No!" I shriek. "No, what are you doing?! You damn turkey! Get out of here!"

I run to my bird, I put my back between him and Ghirahim.

"Fly, fly! Get out, damn you, fly! FLY!"

But then his wings start to droop, bending oddly.

"Run, then! Run!" I spin around just in time to see the demon lord preparing for a lunge—the same kind of lunge he did at Impa at the Temple of Time. That fast as a bullet, and just as strong, kind of strike.

And he's focused on my bird.

I run at him. It's the only thing I can think to do. I run straight at that black blade, hoping to skewer myself on the end of it—at least then it can't skewer my bird.

My shrill scream of defiance, of rage and fear, fills the sky, bounces off the trees, echoes shattering the quiet of the forest.

Then there is a blinding, a flash of white, overtaking my vision whole, much like the blackness that stole it when I fell from the sky. And I suddenly feel like I'm falling. Down. Down. Then it stops violently like I've hit ground, leaving me dizzy and disoriented.

When my sight returns, Ghirahim looks as if he's been blasted away, his feet having left long skids in the dirt from where he once stood. And behind me, above me, is Turk, looking like he got caught in an updraft.

I don't have time for confusion.

"Fly!" I scream one more time, tearing my throat raw with the intensity. For the first time in his life, my bird obeys, a glaze of sadness smothering the fire.

He can't go high, but he goes away, somewhere to the east. That's fine. Anywhere but here.

"There it is again." Ghirahim's face is darkened by a perplexed frown. "That fluctuating aura."

In a blink the demon lord is standing before me, catching me by the back of my hair, forcing me to look up at him.

"You." He looks down on me. Very far down. The game did not do justice to show how tall he really is. He towers over me.

I go limp. My eyes lose the urgent spark, instead taking on a sheen of uncaring. I'm sure he's going to kill me now. I can't fight anymore. There's no more game to play.

But then suddenly the demon lord is smiling; a sinister, plotting kind of smile, and it is then fear steals back into me.

"You just might come in handy." He tosses his head and the blue diamond hanging from his right ear bobs. "And if not, then it is of little consequence."

"Um…" I want to wriggle out of his grasp, but his hold is iron, and my wounds screech their pain. "I—what?"

"Yes, I'll make you useful. Oh, no, no need to thank me. In fact, telling me about this 'Wing Ceremony' will do just fine."

My eyes shoot open wide, my mouth sets in a firm line.

My scalp screams as my hair is yanked.

"A servant," he whispers, a crazed light in his eye, "would do well to answer her master."

"Yes." It comes out before I can stop it. The pain, the fear, the rage. The voice that keeps saying _Stay alive_. "It's…six—five days away. The spirit maiden goes flying on the—the southwest side of the floating island. A black tornado takes her down."

Coward, I hiss to myself. The other voice says, It's going to happen, whether you speak or not.

"A tornado…" Ghirahim looks thoughtful. "We'll see, sky child."

Then he grabs my arm with a grip I know will leave bruises. I bite my lip to keep from crying out—I won't give him the satisfaction.

"Don't lag behind, my little broken bird. A servant should always be prompt."

"Don't you have other servants to boss around?" I snap.

"None as interesting as you, my dear." He jerks me nearer. "Now stand close, and hold still. We're taking a shortcut."

I tremble, whether because I'm scared or angry, I don't know, and I think of pulling away, making a run for it. Just to spite him. Or maybe to force his hand to kill me quickly, instead of the slow, agonizing torture I'm sure to meet wherever he takes me.

I'm about to attempt it, I'm about to break free.

But then I don't.

Freakishly, it is Zelda's voice I hear from the back of my head.

 _Heed your master….Heed your master…._

I remember her saying that to Turk, but it is only now I wonder why. Loftwings are not considered pets, and to treat one as such is seen as disrespect towards the goddess. One is a rider of a guardian bird, not a master and the birds are revered as friends, not servants. So how could Zelda, of all people, have such a grievous slip of tongue?

 _Heed your master._

I do. I have no choice.

Ghirahim presses me close and snaps his fingers, black and golden panes of diamonds flittering before us. I feel stretched, yanked, contorted. We disappear.

This isn't how it was supposed to be…at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed last chapter.**

 **Is it still worth continuing?**


	3. his game

**A/N: Thank you RavenHairedSpectrobeMaster, Guest, Wounded Wing, and DiscountPineapple for reviewing last chapter. You made my day.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

We teleport to a place I've never seen before, in the game or otherwise.

The castle gives off the same vibe as Ganon's in Ocarina of Time, but it isn't the same. Though it has the same smooth stone walls, the same red carpeting spanning the center of corridors and stairways, and the same eerie torches casting dancing shadows along the halls. Even the same stained glass windows that can't be seen out of, though the thunder rumbling outside gives picture to the dark clouds hanging overhead.

My stare lingers on shining metal accents decorating the top and base of the walls, some shaped like a giant beast's teeth, some gleaming in the patterns of wind swirls. We pass many doors, some stone, some wooden, some a frightening metal with veins etched into them. There is a little spirit of adventure in me, burning like a little candle in the face of these fearful, blazing torches, and it wants to explore the castle—explore it like a dungeon. Solve the puzzles, defeat the enemies, find the boss key…

But of course I am not allowed, and am not foolish enough to attempt it, not with my wrist captured in the crushing grip of said boss, who has already proven that he could kill me without trying. I am tugged along and taken exactly where he wants me to go.

Ghirahim takes me up, up, up. The spiral ascending stairs are never ending, and I struggle to keep my breathing quiet and even. Legs burning, side in stitches, I do my best to keep pace, but weariness drags me down. I quickly recover mid-stumble, fight to not let it happen again. Did he notice? I won't let him see weakness if I can help it. It will only fuel his cruelty.

We don't stop until we reach the top—and I mean the absolute top. The stairs end and my everything aches, so much that my bones feel brittle and blood feels painful pumping through my veins.

A large wooden door, reinforced with iron, waits before us. The fear of what lies beyond it—the rack, the iron maiden—sends shivers through me. But I try to hide it, try to keep the trembling hidden under my skin.

My trepidation is so fierce I do not notice the Lizalfos standing directly to the right of the door.

"Shii," Ghirahim addresses the Lizalfos, "we have a guest."

The green scaled beast, with its slicked back yellow Mohawk-like crest that reminds me of the feathery spines of an iguana, is quick to open the entrance to what I'm assuming is my worst nightmare. Did I ever call the Academy doom and gloom? I'm such an idiot.

"Oh, don't be shy, little bird. Shii just loves having company." Ghirahim shoves me, effectively uprooting my quivering feet from the floor. "Go on in—this will be your new cage. For a time," he finishes in an ominous tone.

I have no choice but to enter. My heart is screaming and I'm using every ounce of what's left of my strength just to keep a straight face. Don't show fear, don't show fear, repeats in my head. But I think some shivers reach the surface of my skin, doesn't stay down in my bones. I'm such an idiot, such a—

There's nothing in this room.

I blink like a confused cow. Where are the torture devices? The blood stained spikes, the rusted tetanus inducing chains? There's just a large circular stone room, with a glassless gothic-type window that's taller than Ghirahim, and wide enough to fit two average sized humans. The window shows the dark clouds, eerily still in the dim sky. But it is no gateway of escape. In fact, it shows just how improbable escape really is. It looks like we're in the tallest tower, and the ground is a far scream below, so far that I'm sure I'd reach terminal velocity if I jumped.

"So sorry to crush any remaining hope you might have"—Ghirahim comes up behind me, squeezes my shoulder to the point of pain—"but don't count on that bird of yours to come save you. Even if it avoids the arrows, it won't be so lucky with the lightning." He then croons in my ear, "There's no escaping."

"I wasn't planning on it," I grit out, amazed my voice keeps steady—no, it shook near the end. Dammit.

"Smart girl. Now, about that 'Wing Ceremony' and the spirit maiden…"

"Five days from now. Southwest of the floating island. She will land in Faron Woods." The words tumble out flat and lifeless, with the barest quivering in my tone. Traitor, I call myself, yet at the same time I am reminded that Zelda falls no matter what. She has to fall if Demise is to ever be defeated.

Unfortunately, the internal battle causes my already wrecked nerves to shatter, and I whirl to face the demon, eyes wild, and snarl out, "You got the information you want—hurry up and kill me!"

He laughs, soft and low. "Now, now, darling. Patience. Do you really think I'd let you off so easy?"

I push down a growl. "Of course you wouldn't…you sick bastard."

He grabs me by the chin, wretches my head up to look at him, and I hiss as I feel the congealing cut at my neck tear back open. "Such terrible manners," he scolds in mock-aghast. "We'll have to work on that."

My head snaps to the side with the resounding slap, face stinging like it's been hit with a rock instead of a palm. I bite my lip, swallow my cry. I've already slipped up too much—don't let him see, don't let him hear. Stay stoic, stay resolute—No, no, no, no tears building up, please—no! I slam my eyelids shut, keep my face turned away, bury the saline.

Then I start laughing. It begins low, grows in volume, until I'm giggling like an idiot. I cease the sound as soon as Ghirahim's fingers find my chin again. I stare defiantly into his dark eyes at first, but then, slowly, the light fades and my gaze becomes lifeless. Clear as glass. Stay stoic, I repeat. Stay resolute. Face your end with dignity.

Ghirahim is not smiling anymore. Again, he looks at me like I'm a jumbled equation. "Such strange behavior…especially from such a soft looking girl."

I cannot fight off the manic grin that slits my mouth, bares my teeth.

But that grin falls like a boat-load of bricks when the demon tilts my chin up further and leans down. My jaw drops at the feel of slick warmth, as he drags a freakishly long tongue over the wound on my neck, both stinging and, strangely, soothing the cut. He withdraws, watching with anticipation, licking his smirking lips.

I don't think my after-shock reaction is one he expects.

Laughter bursts forth from my lungs like punches. "Hahah—Oh my gosh! Oh my gos—that's just like you, isn't it?! You would do that! You would!" Tears gather in the corners of my eyes as I stumble backwards, gasping for air. "How did—how did I not see that coming? I'm not surprised; I shouldn't be."

My laughter cuts off with the hysteria. That's right, I remind myself. I know—I know who I'm with. I know what he's capable of.

Ghirahim watches me keenly, a dark spark manifesting in his eye. "You speak as if you know me. Hmm, perhaps your…prophetic words may have some merit after all." He turns and strides back to the door. He whirls to face me one more time. "We'll see, sky child. I have nothing to lose if not. You on the other hand…"

"Really?" I snap. "Do I have much to lose? My life? Go ahead, take it!" Hysteria seizes control once again. "Fight me, cut me, kill me! I don't care! Send me home! I can think of no better hand to die by than yours!"

There's that wicked smile again. "Flattery won't get you anywhere, my little bird."

"It's not flattery, you—!" I pull back the insult, then bite out, "It's fact."

I wasn't trying to compliment him; I wasn't trying to widen his smile. I was just saying it'd be better to die by him than a Bokoblin or something stupid like that. Death by powerful demon lord? Or death by mentally challenged ogre-thing? Yeah, the former definitely has more dignity to it.

He leaves in a swirl of his cloak and the solid slamming of the door. I am left with the Lizalfos in the bare-stone, empty room.

My brown eyes meet its yellow glare.

"So…" I say to the lizard-man-thing, shuffling on my feet. "…this is awkward."

* * *

Honestly, I expect to be beaten. I expect Ghirahim to get bored and bring about my suffering to amuse himself. But days pass and I don't see a lick of him.

It's just me. And the lizard.

Whose name is Shii…I think. And it's not so bad. It mostly just glares at me from the other side of the room, arms crossed over scaly chest, daggers hanging from holsters at its hips. They took my kitchen knife long ago and more than once do I think of trying to wrest one of those blades off it, but it sees me eyeing them.

"Just try it," it snarls, and I'm so shocked that it talked I can't form a reply, or even move.

Definitely a lot smarter than a Bokoblin. Good on Ghirahim, I find myself thinking. He didn't leave a complete retard to guard his prisoner. Although it…it would have been really good for me if he did. It's just that villain stupidity in games and movies always irked me.

Though this—it isn't a game anymore, is it? It feels strange to even think that. But more and more things are clearing, coming into focus. Especially as I lay curled up, shivering on the cold, hard floor. The wind blows through the glassless window, and there are no corners in the circular chamber to hide in. It doesn't help that, multiple times, other Lizalfos come into the room periodically to dump buckets of freezing cold water on me. At first, it felt nice to get the fruit intestines sluiced off me, but now it's just painful. I don't try to run or fight—more guards will just come in. I take the water with the stoic hatred of a cat being forced through the indignity of it all.

"You smell, human," they always say.

When they aren't looking, I suck as much water from my hair as I can. They have given me nothing else to survive on.

Although I suppose I should be thankful…as thankful as a prisoner can get for being taken to the toilet regularly. At least I'm not being forced to go in a bucket. It also helps that the castle's plumbing seems to be as advanced as Skyloft's. It's the little things that keep me sane.

I do my best to keep track of the time, but it's hard in this place. Dawn and dusk are subtle, sometimes undifferentiating. The days are dark in a dim lightbulb kind of way, while the nights come on quick and are black, black, black. Black and windy, lit up only by flashes of lightning. No stars, no moon shows through those clouds. Sometimes the lightning is far off, the thunder quiet and rumbling, other times it seems like it's right next to the tower—the exploding booms make me scream.

The Lizalfos laughs at my fright, and I give it a resounding, "Piss off!"

It only laughs harder.

It must have been three days—four days? I don't know—before Ghirahim decides to make another appearance.

"It's almost time, little bird. You had better hope your…visions, or whatever they are, are correct."

"They're correct," I say dully, "and if not—whatever."

He stares at me too long, gaze wriggling into me, beneath my skin, and it freaks me out. I glare to hide the fear.

"Shii," Ghirahim speaks to the Lizalfos without looking away from me. "Give her a dagger."

"What?" I gasp, eyes widening with Shii's. But, unlike me, Shii does not question. The Lizalfos only obeys, if grudgingly. There is a wrinkling of its snout, a distasteful twist to its lips as it unclasps a holster. It chucks the blade in a lazy underhand toss, and I stagger back as the dagger clatters at my feet.

"Pick it up," Ghirahim orders me, and I'm quick to obey, but not because he said so. He then spreads his arms, his cloak disintegrating into diamond fractals.

I don't like that smile on his face. I never have. "What's your deal?"

"We're playing a game. Try to keep up, would you?" One of those daggers, rhombus blade with a faint red glow, appears in his left hand. His right raises in the familiar 'catch' pose.

He advances towards me in all his white, pasty glory. Fear jitters, but with it, or rather over it, runs the hysteria. My toothy grin comes out. Yes, yes, this is it—this is the game, this is familiar.

But unlike the game, I feel every wound, the old ones, the new ones, and I'll feel the ones to come. Not fun, the fear whimpers under the mania, but I let the latter take control because it's easier. And because I have no choice but to fight. Lying down and taking it is not an option. I start circling, but he keeps walking, straight ahead. That boldness, that unperturbed confidence is something I can't help but admire, even if he is a crazy freak.

I know what to do, I know… My mind keeps chanting it, but it doesn't lessen my exhaustion, my hunger, my dehydration. My tired eyes cannot look from his dark ones, the shadow around them like a raven's wing, making them seem deeper, darker… I am standing before a carnivore, I realize. A bloodthirsty, ravenous carnivore.

Come on then, I think, a frenzied light coming to life in my eyes. Make me fall, make me bleed, devour me. Bring this—this dream-like existence—to an end. Kill the pain, kill me. Be my painkiller. Because a killer he is.

But he is so restrained. Walking so calmly. I won't be so calm.

I make a mad dash at him, make to aim high, but I go low instead. I graze him, and I feel his bruising kick in my thigh before I can fully evade, caught mid-roll.

Not fast enough.

On my feet, I swing the dagger. He catches it, but this time I push the blade upward, to where his fingers open. The blade is freed, but having to put my whole body behind the push, my arms too weak, I stumble, and he takes advantage of that. He sidesteps, and I tumble forward. His left hand with the glowing dagger rises to meet my fall.

I twist, but he slices my cheek.

I move, I move. Faster, slower. I fake attacks, feign retreat, lunge into real ones at random. The only thing I can do is confuse him.

One hit. I just want one hit.

I'm trying to think of a strategy when he dashes at me. I leap back too late and the tip of his dagger sears across the bridge of my nose.

My pained cry is caught in my throat and there it morphs, comes out as a laugh. I grip my face with my free hand, the other clutching the dagger. Laughing, laughing.

I rip my hand away. I'm smiling, all teeth. "Rah!" I run at him, anger funneling through my heart, blasting in tandem with the fear, the hysteria, the giddiness.

I'm alive.

Alive. Alive, I fight for my life.

"This isn't a dream," I say after rolling away from another swipe of his blade. "Finally! For—the—first—time…" I growl the last: "It's not a dream."

Maybe it's a nightmare.

But at least I feel it.

* * *

I wouldn't be surprised if, here in the after-fight, when I'm too exhausted to even lift the dagger, Ghirahim keeps beating me. To within an inch of my life. I wouldn't be surprised.

Which is why I'm so shocked when, instead, he drops a bottle of red liquid in my lap.

I gape at the red potion, treat it as if he just plopped a ruby in front of me, for me. "I…I don't…understand? What—?"

"It's a red potion, little fool. Drink it."

"But—"

"Shall I pour it down your throat? Drown you with it?"

I drink it. But the entire time I keep wary eyes on the demon lord, wondering what the trick is—what's the catch?

"I can't have you dying before the fated day, now, can I? Then I wouldn't get the pleasure of ripping you apart should it come to pass you've lied to me."

Oh, of course. That's why. Sick freak.

I gasp in air as I take a break from gulping. "You do know I could've died days ago, right? You didn't exactly give me any food or water. Humans can't go more than two days without water. Your lackeys just happened to throw buckets at me 'cause I stink."

He blinks. "Oh, right. I forgot. Actually—and this is quite embarrassing—but I forgot you were up here to begin with."

"You…forgot about me. Completely?"

He smiles.

"…Jackass."

And then he's grabbing my hair and yanking me up, summoning a dagger and holding the tip to my lips.

"Such a foul mouth, it's so completely uncivil. But I can fix that, I can fix you." Ghirahim presses the blade into my lower lip, drawing blood from flesh already bitten so thin. "Unless…you would like to correct your mistake."

My teeth are clenched tight to protect my tongue. Even so, I manage to hiss, "…Sorry."

"What was that? I didn't quite catch it." He leans close to my face, and for a moment I think about trying to bite him. The dagger makes me think twice.

"Sorry. I'm…sorry."

"Sorry, what?" he whispers. "Who am I, servant?"

"I'm sorry…Master." I'm getting frantic. "Master, I'm sorry."

As soon as the blade leaves my lips I'm back to nursing the bottle of red potion, glaring at the demon lord as I back up to the wall like a scorned animal.

"Oh, don't be like that, little bird. Just think: tomorrow's the big day. Aren't you excited? I know I am."

"…Of course…'Master.'"

He doesn't seem to catch the slight sarcasm I attach to his title. No, his smile doesn't leave his face, and he all about prances out the door. Freaking fruitcake. Freaking, deadly, evil fruitcake.

The healing medicine does its job. My wounds close speedily, leaving just rusted lines of scabs. I pass the time sitting on the floor, brushing my fingers over the rough surfaces decorating my face, especially the ones on my cheek and nose. Briefly, I wonder what I must look like. Heh, does it matter?

The next day—I think it's the next day—my heart starts hammering harder than usual. I'm waiting, waiting. Has Zelda fallen? Or were things slightly changed? Maybe my presence altered the course. But it could only have done so marginally. I'm just a girl, or rather a woman caught in a girl's body. Whatever. The point is a little human like me can't change destiny.

It will happen no matter what I do.

And it does.

Though I knew it would, I certainly didn't foresee Ghirahim bursting through the door, looking like a young boy who's won a trillion dollars. He just about leaps towards me, picks me up by the shoulders, and spins.

"You were right, little bird, you were right! It's happened! The spirit maiden is within our grasp! You brilliant child!"

"Ah—Ghk! I—Ack!" I can't really reply—I'm too busy trying to keep my brain from scrambling as he jumps up and down in joyous circles with me. And what is that high-pitched sound coming from his throat? Is…is he _squealing_?

Yes. Yes, he is. The fearsome demon overlord of the surface is squealing like an excited little girl.

"And the temple—Skyview Temple, you said?—she's there." Suddenly he drops me, suddenly his face goes dark. "But that"—His fingers twitch, his hands still hovering in air where he held me. They curl into fists.—"that lowly servant of the goddess. She's erected a barrier outside the temple."

I blink, heart slowing as confusion takes place of fear. "Wait—yeah, there should be a barrier inside the temple, at the last door, but outside?"

"That's what I said, stupid girl!" His shout nearly rips my eardrums.

"Okay, okay! Geez, dude, calm down, she's still in there and you make it in there too."

He grabs me up by my shoulders, shakes me. "And just how do I do that?"

"G-Give me a moment! Shaking doesn't help me remember!" I'm racking my brain but Ghirahim's fingers dig into my skin. "M-Master, don't—be—a dick!"

I stumble as I push away from him, fall flat on my butt.

Ghirahim blinks slowly. "Did you just…refer to me as phallic symbol?"

Heat explodes in my cheeks, burns up to my ears. "What? N-No! I—that's—Ugh!" I throw my hands up. "That's what we call rude and inconsiderate people where I come from, okay?!"

He's advancing towards me again, rage printed clearly on his face.

I crawl backwards, words blurt from my mouth. "The boy! There's a boy in green with a heavenly sword who can move through the barriers."

Me and my stupid self-preservation instinct—always jumping out when I want nothing to do with it. And it does its job. Ghirahim stops, regards me silently, brow low in thought.

"Yes… I saw that boy. The aura of his spirit..." He trails off, staring at me. Those dark eyes bore into me, through me, like he's turning me inside out, and it makes my skin crawl. I'm about to snap when he mutters, "and the aura of the spirit maiden. Remarkably similar to yours….but only when it flares."

Huh? That's the only thing my brain supplies. "Uh, I'm pretty sure it's…not," I mumble, but he doesn't take notice.

"Very well, then." The demon spreads his arms in a flourish. "Let's put you to the test."

"W-What? Master, I don't think you have time for this. Zel—the spirit maiden won't remain in the temple forever. You should, you know, go there."

Yes, go there and away from me. Far, far, away from me.

He smiles that devilish smile. "You mean 'We.' We will go there."

I gape, my mind stops working. "I—I, wha—"

"Close your mouth, you look ridiculous. Well? Get up, get up, don't dawdle!"

Even the violent upward motions of his hands don't register, and he ends up gripping my wrist, wrenching me to my feet. His arm comes around my shoulders and he crushes me to his side. And then, in a slew of black and gold diamonds that rattle me to my core, we disappear.

I…I can't believe he's actually taking me with him. I didn't see it coming, and it's not until we stand before the ancient temple that it really sinks in.

A smile, slow and slightly feverish, breaks out over my face. The adventure I've spent this life dreaming of, the game I've been replaying over and over in my head ever since I was old enough to form coherent thought and retain memory, the one I thought wasn't going to be able to experience. It begins here—and here I am.

Tear through the surface with flying colors, play Ghirahim's game, crush Demise…

I'm not beside the person I thought I was going to be. But I'm here. That's what matters.

…And If I play my cards right, I may yet get to fight at Link's side after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Still good? In character? I'd love to know what you think.  
**


	4. little sheep, little wolf

**A/N: Weee! My first posting of the new year! Happy New Year, by the way. Hopefully it goes smoother than the last.  
**

 **Thank you DiscountPineapple, Maybe, Guest, and RavenHairedSpectrobeMaster for your messages/reviews. They help me push on.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

The white temple, with its wide sweeping stairway lies before me. Trees and vines and roots have encroached upon it, encased and wrapped around columns, protruded from aged stone. The ornate door, with its jeweled bird-like symbol, is waiting. My excitement is so potent, I rush forward without thinking. I forget my hunger, I forget my fatigue.

I don't get far before I'm pulled back by my hair.

"Patience, dear. There's still the matter of the barrier."

"What barrier?!" bursts out of my mouth. "Let's go, let's go! There's nothing stopping us! Let's—Go!"

I think some of my hair tears out of my head—I don't care. I rip free and dash to the temple. Happiness rages through me like a geyser, then anger, because I'm not with Link, then happiness again, then—

As I pass the threshold of the temple stairs, white light blinds at the edge of my vision, tunneling, nearly taking my sight whole. The next I know I've run through some sort of transparent white wall—not appearing until I'm right up on it—and it shatters into a million pieces. For a moment I think I've run through a plate-glass window. But the shards do not slice as glass would. They glow, split into glittering white particles that sprinkle my skin and disappear like snow.

I blink first at my arm, feel the cold tingling sensations left behind, then at the ground where the other bits fell, and then look back up at Ghirahim. He watches, expression indecipherable.

I blink again. Realization hits.

"Oh. Holy sh—crap. There was a barrier."

…And I rammed through it like it was air. I stare at the white moss-stained bricks as if the particles will reappear, as if they will tell me what just happened.

Ghirahim's soft laughter reaches me, sends shivers down my spine, and I get the feeling I've done something very wrong. The demon saunters over the ground where the white shards fell, and I can do nothing but watch like a hapless sheep as the wolf clears the fence. It doesn't matter, I remind myself. It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

Yet this feeling won't go away.

Excitement is tapered by an onslaught of exhaustion, and my legs feel numb as I follow Ghirahim to the sealed door.

"The door will open if you hit the—"

He snaps his fingers and the red crystal above the entrance flashes before I can finish my sentence. Stone grates against stone as the slabs part before us. A gust of musty air pulses from the ensuing tunnel. We descend into the dark labyrinth, his feet silent, my boots giving the barest of clicks. I don't have any trouble until the door hisses shut behind us, snuffing out the little bit of light that guided my way.

I try to measure my steps carefully. Down one step, down another. But fatigue finally turns my legs to jelly, and one faulty step leads me tumbling head first down the flight of stairs.

The good news: there are bioluminescent mushrooms lighting the bottom. The bad news: everything in my body hurts.

I'm on my feet before Ghirahim reaches me. I predicted he would yank me up otherwise. He snatches my wrist regardless. "Little fool."

"Yeah? Well, that's what happens. I'm kinda malnourished here. You're…you're lucky I'm even conscious." I sway a little to the right, a little to the left, anchored only by his bruising grip.

He sneers at me before focusing his attention ahead. He's probably thinking how weak humans are, probably thinking how stupid we are. Yeah, well…he's right. Not only can I not think of any counter arguments, I don't have the energy to argue with him. Nor do I have energy to walk, and he practically drags me along with him, uncaring of the rocks that dig into my knees when I stumble, or the dirt that stains my once gray pants. He just keeps pulling until I've caught footing again.

Ancient roots stick out from the walls and ceiling, like the teeth of a great beast. The blue mushrooms glow, their spores blinking in the air like little fireflies. It's musty down here, smells weird, but…it's pretty. Mystical even. I never fully appreciated it until now, standing here in the flesh.

We come to the first barred door.

"There's another red cryst—"

He grabs me. Red, gold, black, white diamonds. The feeling of being stretched and yanked. We've teleported to the next room.

Another locked door. We teleport. Again, and again.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't feel like I'm being torn apart in the process, and it isn't long before nausea and a deep-seated ache accompany exhaustion.

"Okay, sooo…" I struggle to keep pace with Ghirahim's long strides; I must stumble three steps for his every one. "Here I am, with all the knowledge to solve all these puzzles, and you're just like," I snap my fingers, toss my head in imitation of him, "fuck these puzzles, we're teleporting!"

He shoots me a dark look.

"Screw!" I amend quickly, just as his hand releases me and rises. "Screw these puzzles, I meant."

He stares, still poised to backhand, and I wait with baited breath for his decision.

I am saved when a replacement for his ire pops from the ground. He slices through the Deku Baba with a careless flick of his wrist. "Must you be vulgar?" he addresses to me as he watches the carnivorous plant wither.

"Um…" I blink, heart still thudding. "Heh. That's…kind of funny, coming from someone who likes to strangle people with their own intestines."

"I don't…" He pauses, turns his head to me, and gives me a smile that makes my spine tingle.

My eyes go wide and I pinch my lips together. Oh. Oh, geez. I'm giving him ideas. Okay, now would be a good time to shut my face, then.

"Regardless," he continues, "have some standards, would you? I know it's hard, especially for one of your stature, but do try."

I mumble, "Even evil has standards, huh?" I blow out a sigh. "All right, I'll try."

"Good."

Something about the way he says that hits me the wrong way. "Hey…I can totally be a lady, you know."

I continue to grumble incoherently after he sends me a smirk, a brow raised in disbelief. Why does this guy even care? Oh, he'll straight up murder people, but if someone dares to drop the f-bomb? Oh heck no. He'll bitch slap them 'cross the room. Or, better yet, he'll kill them too. Why hasn't he killed me then? I can't help but wonder…

Oh, right. I tell him the future. But I don't see that lasting forever.

I glance around, hoping for a trace of green. Link, _where are you_?

The golden light of the sun stings as we enter the sky room. I shield my eyes, squint as I look up the great dome, to where the ceiling opens to the outside. A breeze, filled with the smell of earth and green leaves, tickles all around. It is slightly chilly on my skin, and it ruffles my hair, sending strands into my face. I pay it no mind, as my focus is on the great height of the dome spanning stories above my head, making me feel like the ant I am. Even the bird statues, with their pin-straight Ancient Egyptian-like posture, stare solemnly upwards.

"Don't dilly-dally! Keep moving forward."

Ghirahim has gotten ahead without me noticing, and I startle into a jog. I follow the line of statutes circling the dome, glancing up at them as I pass.

That is how I see the Skulltula before it crashes down on my head.

"Ghtk! Hey!" I clamber back, voice breaking with high frequency. "P-Piss off!"

My hearts seizes as the giant arachnid skitters towards me, its fangs wriggling, its legs clicking rapidly. I fumble for the knife at my back, only to realize I don't have it when my fingers brush skin. My teeth bare, eyes widen, and I hiss. It has about as much effect as a kitten trying to be intimidating.

The arachnid suddenly flips over, belly up, and a glowing dagger plunges into its soft under-flesh with a squelch. I scramble away from the ensuing splatter, only to ram back into Ghirahim's chest. His arm comes around my collar when another Skulltula drops down on its web, drawn by the commotion its brethren made.

The next thing I know, the hilt of the glowing dagger is pushed into my hand and I'm being shoved forward. I glance back at Ghirahim.

I don't like the smirk on his face.

"Go on, little bird. Put your knowledge to use."

Just because I know how doesn't mean I want to get near the thing. But I dare not say that out loud.

I grip the dagger, try to keep my knees from shaking. The Skulltula swings before me, legs twitching. The faux eye markings on its main body don't bother me as much as its clicking fangs.

I know what to do, I know what to do… My mind knows; can my body follow through? It has to, I have to. There is a wolf behind me, and if I cannot kill this monster he will know I'm just a sheep. Just a sheep for slaughter. But—but if I can kill, then maybe he will think I'm a wolf too. A mere pup, but a wolf nonetheless.

I push my quivering limbs into action, swing sideways at the arachnid. I jump back as its swaying turns into a spiral, and when its purple underbelly shows I dash in and, stab, stab, stab. I do not close my eyes against the spits of fluid, cannot chance a retaliation.

Its fang nicks me anyway, and blood trickles from my thigh. I stumble away as it shrivels and falls to the ground. There is a ping in my heart, louder than the shriek of fear or rage. That feeling is glad I am wounded, and it makes me look away from the dying creature.

Ghirahim snatches back the dagger, a pleased smile upturning his pale lips. "Sloppy," he says. "But good enough."

* * *

Link…

Where. Is. Link?

I keep glancing back at the giant door, with its strange slot for the key. I keep hoping to hear a click, a groan of stone as it opens.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And Ghirahim is getting angry.

"Why won't it open, little bird?" he asks—demands. We stand in front of the golden arch, the door with the insignia of Hylia imprinted on its surface, the only thing between us and the Skyview Spring...and Zelda. "Break it like you broke the first one!"

"I can't. I tried. I can't!" I cringe away as the back of his hand comes up. Words screech from my mouth. "You think you can starve me and expect me to function?! You think you can leave me shivering in a cold tower and— _get away from me_!" I scream the last part in English, and Ghirahim pauses, brow lowering for a split second.

My back hits the arch of the golden door, and I stand there, trying not to shake so bad. Fear hammers at my heart and the hysteria that served me days ago is all but gone. I have no strength left to summon it.

My heart nearly bursts as he materializes his black blade. Is this it then? Good, says one side of me. Run, run, says the other. I am caught between the two, unable to move, unable to do anything but stretch my eyes wide and smile.

"Never mind. I'll do it myself."

And then he strikes the door. The door, not me.

There is a blinding flash of golden light with each slash. Flare, strike, flare. It's almost akin to the blitz of cameras. Such should keep my eyes wide open, but instead I slide down to the floor, wobbly legs no longer able to keep up, and my eyelids droop. My stomach, twisting so painfully it feels like it will tear in half, is what keeps me from passing out. For about a few seconds. Then I really do pass out.

My exhaustion is so heavy, I fall straight into dreams. At least, I assume they are dreams. Images of my mother flicker, my father's voice rumbles in the background, my brother's teasing laughter echoes from distant times, a distant world. Suddenly there is sunlight, my mother's face comes into focus, and she's smiling, her auburn hair burning bright in the shine as she rushes in to push me, swinging, to and fro, swinging…

A golden flare, the rippling blood-fang cloak, blinking blackness as I fall in and out of wakefulness, and then a breeze.

A breeze coming not from Ghirahim's attacks against the barrier, but another wind coming from…

The demon stops mid-strike, the black blade disintegrates. "Look who it is…"

Wake up, I tell myself. This is it. You've got to wake up. Muscles scream from the mere movement of raising my head. One eyelid is still half-lidded, but I'm thankful to be able to open them at all.

My eyes latch onto green, and a tired, closed-lip smile finds its way onto my face. "L-Link…"

Guileless blue eyes are wide with disbelief. Link stares at me as if he's seeing a ghost. His mouth opens, closes, wordless.

Then his stare latches onto the demonic presence that stifles the room.

"I thought that tornado I stirred up would have tossed and torn you apart, yet here you are. Not in pieces." With a sigh the demon lord tosses his head, his attention turning back to the golden barricade. "Not that your life or death has any consequence. It's just the girl that matters now, and I can sense her here…just beyond this door."

I struggle with all my might just to stand up. My knees wobble, my thighs shake, my ankles threaten to bend and throw me off balance. "L-Link… Zelda's, Zelda is… You're going to have to…"

Well, if I could form an actual sentence, that'd be great. But my mind is muddled, thought processes turning over slowly. Stupid, I call myself. How could I have let this happen? How am I going to fight with Link now? I can't even stand without…!

I stumble to the side, legs scrambling like a newborn giraffe to catch balance, and I end up ramming into Ghirahim's side. He takes it like a wall; the bump doesn't budge him an inch, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Yes," he continued, "we plucked Her Majesty from her perch in the clouds, and now she's ours."

I blink stupidly. When I played the game I wasn't sure what 'we' meant. I assumed it was his minions, or even the demon king that he spoke of. But, now…why does it sound like he's referring to me? I didn't have anything to do with… Oh.

 _You're the reason he knew. You told him when and where. But what does it matter? It'll happen either way, you said._

 _Just a game; it's just a game._

"Oh, but listen to me. I'm being positively uncivil. Allow me to introduce myself." He spins around, taking me with him, and my stomach lurches as if I'm on a carousel. "I am the Demon Lord who presides over this land you look down upon, this world you call the surface. You may call me Ghirahim."

He goes on to say he prefers his full title: Lord Ghirahim, but he's not fussy. I suppress a snort. Not fussy? If I don't call him 'Master,' if I don't watch my tongue, he's likely to cut it out—Not fussy?!

"And this," He squeezes me close to his side; my ribs creak, and then he moves his arm to rest it upon my head like I'm some sort of—some sort of…arm rest. "This is my darling little friend…" There is a pause. A long pause. I tentatively peer up through the messy hair his hand has pushed in my face. That arrogant smile does not match the question in his eyes. "Hmm… Darling, I forgot your name."

I smile back. "Hmm, you never asked for it and I never gave it—Ow!" His fingers clench on my head.

There is a whisper of metal. "Kya!"

"Foolish boy…" The demon's voice is dark, amused. "Did you really just draw your sword?"

"Yes, yes he did," I rasp, wondering if I should even try ducking out from under his guy's hand. In the end I don't have to. He lets go, spreads his arms out theatrically as if welcoming an audience.

"By all rights the girl should have fallen into our hands already." His smile dissipates, his arms curl in, his hands twitch in and out of fists in front of his face. "She was nearly ours when that loathsome servant of the goddess snatched her away. Do you have any idea how that made me feel inside?"

My small voice pipes up at the recognition. "Furio—"

"Furious! Outraged! SICK with ANGER!"

Ghirahim teleports out of sight. The room seems to shake, and my heart pounds. The light in the room is flickering; dimming, growing bright, dimming. Does his emotion affect his magic, I wonder. "Uh…"

And then I realize, hey, he's not near me anymore.

But the moment I go to take a step towards Link, the demon's voice echoes off the stone.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay where you are, little bird. This turn of events has left me with a strong appetite for bloodshed. It would just break my heart if you were to get caught in the crossfire." His voice drips with overt sweetness.

"Link," I say—can I say nothing else? My heart is running a marathon in my chest, fear is tying my tongue. When Ghirahim reappears behind Link, approaching like a cat upon a mouse, I open my mouth to emit warning…only to let out a croak. Coward, I hiss to myself. What is he going to do? Kill you? Good! You deserve it. Let him! Let him set you free from this place—you don't belong here.

"Still," Ghirahim whispers over Link's shoulder, "it hardly seems fair, being of my position, to take all of my anger out on you. Which is why I promise up front not to murder you. No, I'll just beat you within an inch of your life!"

Annnd, the creepy tongue thing. Link's face contorts in horror and he's quick to pivot away from that wriggling muscle. I'd laugh, if I weren't so choked with terror.

It's okay, I tell myself. Everything…everything is going as it should. Link doesn't die here, he can't. He… Wait. How many times did I die on my first play through of the game? There was no fear then. No fear from a game I could reset at any time, no fear from something that wasn't real.

My hearts hammers, my lungs fluctuate rapidly, my limbs shake with weariness.

This…this is real.

And then I start thinking about the timelines. The one that sticks out the most is the Fallen Timeline. It was—it will be—the result of Link failing to defeat Ganon in Ocarina of Time. Link…Link dies in that timeline; Ganon kills him. What if…what if such a timeline were to branch off from this one too? Once I realize that, my mind hones in on it with tunnel vision. Panic sets in. I cannot find my breath, my heart tries desperately to ram its way out of my chest, I sway backward and forward.

Don't faint. Don't faint.

"Link—Link, b-be careful! Li—" Oh, who the crap am I?! Navi?! Stop distracting him, I berate. Either say something useful or shut up!

Link readies his shield in front, blade bared like a great fang. Ghirahim has already disintegrated his cloak. He advances with that nonchalant confidence, looking like a specter in all that ghostly white.

"Link, sword! Catch! Demon! Catch!"

Oh, good. I've graduated to coherent words. Maybe next I'll be able to say a complete sentence.

Ghirahim raises his hand and it glows red, with middle, pointer, and thumb ready to catch Link's blade. Link circles, his sword poised and shield at the ready. No matter where Link goes, Ghirahim follows, walking straight ahead, reaching for the white blade.

My stupor is like a fog, and like fog it rolls by. When there is a clearing, I shout, "Remember when we sparred? Remember when I said you'd fight a demon?!" My voice is weak, but its highness carries and Link's eyes dart to me for the barest moment, widen in the split second, and stay that way as comprehension fights confusion. "Yes, I knew!" I answer. "He'll try to catch your blade, but if you—!"

Dark, dark eyes glance my way. Our stares lock, and those black pits seem to suck out the very breath from my lungs. I cannot speak.

Ghirahim refocuses on Link. "You had a prophet living amongst you, and you never even realized?" He licks his lips. "How unfortunate for you."

My heart clinches at the implication.

"They, they never asked—as if anyone would've believed me." My struggled whisper goes unheard, and I'm glad it does. The excuse sounded lame even to my own ears. Why didn't I tell them—why did I only ever drop hints? Maybe because I was too lazy to explain, maybe because I wanted things to go as they should.

…Because I thought it was pointless. Unreal. A game.

And now Link isn't as prepared as he could've been.

"Oh, yes, she told me. I knew exactly where to send that tornado, I knew exactly when to do so." That pale-lipped smile has never looked so horrific. "You can thank her for all that's happened."

My hands come up to my neck and wrap around it of their own accord. Pressure in my eyes, and then hot cuts down my face as I realize just how stupid and careless I've been.

It…it would have happened either way, it would have…

Link is backing up, on the defensive, and he looks to me. I expect to find condemnation in his expression. Instead, there is only concern.

"What did you do to her?" he hisses, potent glare fixed on Ghirahim.

Shock shakes me to my core. Blame is laid at my feet and he…he still defends me.

Blue eyes flicker to me, drop down my boney frame, up to my pale face, hollowed cheeks. My hands feel the scabbed cut at my neck; remind me of all the other cuts littering my face and body. My wrist and shoulders feel the forming bruises.

Link scowls. The white blade flashes. He lunges, darting it to the center of the demon's chest. The tip of the blade does not make it past Ghirahim's fingers. It is wedged. Shock flickers on the hero's face, and it is in that second that his sword is pulled away from him. The Goddess Sword flips in the air, and the hilt comes down to rest solidly in the palm of the demon.

My shoulders slump in defeated disbelief. What did I warn him for?

"Hah, quite the sword you have here. But so long as you telegraph your attacks like the novice you are, you'll never land a blow."

Link backflips from a horizontal slash, leaps to the side just as the blade shoots through the air like a spear. Green is stained red as he is grazed at the hip. He dashes to his sword, leaps for it and picks it up in a swift roll. The battle then ensues in earnest.

I watch helplessly. I watch as the valiant dog fights the wolf. There's so much I want to tell him, so much I was going to tell him. But I ran out of time. I fell from the sky and ended up by the side of the villain, not the hero.

I was supposed to be at the hero's side. I was supposed to be helping in ways unimaginable. Why couldn't reality ever conform to my expectations?

I stumble forward, a side of me roaring fight! fight! fight! But my weakened body falls to its knees, and a hate burns inward.

When Link lands enough strikes, the black blade is summoned. I watch with hazy eyes, mind scrambling for a way I can help. But I can't. I can't help. I'll just get in the way like a typical damsel who can't do anything. _How could I let this happen?_

My eyes do not clear until the wooden shield shatters, splinters scattering in the wake of Ghirahim's blade.

I blink. Break? Was it supposed to break? No, no—not so easily! How—? It shattered after just one charge from the demon.

There is red on Link's arm, red blazing a trail across his chest. Link swallows every one of his pained grunts, strangles them, and pushes on. But there is still red, so much red.

 _He could die…_

Think, think, think! Stop him! Say something—stop him!

"Ghir—Master! Is this how a powerful demon proves his strength?" I stagger to my feet, raise my voice. But Ghirahim does not listen, and Link is knocked to the ground with a violent slash. It is then I scream, "For _fuck's sake, Master_! You wanna stab someone so bad— _stab_ _me_! Stab me!"

The demon snarls. "Would you stop squawking!"

It is the distraction Link needs to get to his feet. It is the distraction he needs to counter attack.

Streaks of white, streaks of black. Metal collides in high-pitched pings, swords scrape and shriek against each other. Diamonds, diamonds, diamonds. The crimson-glow daggers; Link deflects them with a swipe of his sword, and… They hurt. It's not just the Goddess Sword. 'Master' can be hurt with his own daggers. My mind latches onto that information, hides it away. How could I forget?

Ghirahim staggers back, wipes his chin with the back of his hand. But he still stands tall, and he does not bleed like Link.

"Well… You put up more of a fight than I thought possible out of a soft boy like you. But don't clap for yourself quite yet. That sword of yours is the only reason you still live. I fear I spent far too long teasing and toying with you. The girl's presence as all but faded from this place… No reason to linger here. Goodbye, sky child. Run and play this time. But cross me again, and you're dead."

He moves the black blade in an arch, a trail of black mist following in its wake. There is a metallic echo, and he disappears with the diamond fractals.

I blink at where he stood. Nothing but the empty stone floor meets my eyes.

My brain takes a picture of it, eyelids shuttering like a camera.

Realization slowly dawns as golden light returns to the room, free from the evil presence that pushed it away. My stare locks with the blue of Link's. Relief floods his face with a smile and he starts jogging ( _limping, he's limping_ ) towards me. When it fully sinks in that I'm still here, I can't help but smile in turn. I wobble forward, too relieved to care about hiding the tear streaks on my face.

"You dick," I say. "Were you even looking for me? W-Was anyone?"

Link slows, wincing as he draws nearer. "Kya, are you all ri— That's a stupid question, isn't it?"

I laugh, the warbling sound tinkling off the stone walls. "Yeah. But I should be asking you that. I wish I had some red potion to give y—"

Diamonds explode in my peripheral, and a pale arm snakes around my shoulders. My wide, horror filled eyes are mirrored in Link's.

"Forgot this," says Ghirahim as he snaps his fingers and once again teleports. This time with me in tow.

My resounding "Dammit!" echoes in the stone room, pelts its walls like fists against a cage, and it is the only part of me that stays behind with Link.

* * *

 **A/N: I told myself I couldn't take a shower until I got this done. It's done now, so... *runs to shower*  
**


	5. fragile bird

**A/N: Thank you** **Walavouchey, DiscountPineapple, Maybe, and Starburst4106 for sharing your thoughts! :) I was excited to read each of them, and I've taken your words and advice to heart. Thanks so much!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Once back within the tower, Ghirahim immediately slaps me upside the head for screaming profanity in his ear—and a slap from Ghirahim is equivalent to the punch of a mortal man. Skull throbbing and scalp stinging, I kneel and press my forehead to the floor, desperate to suppress the screams of frustration climbing up my throat.

I am grabbed and pulled up by the shoulders. I fight for all of half a second before sagging, head lolling backwards into the demon's chest. I don't have the energy to lift it; my neck is as useless as a limp noodle. My legs shake, barely hold me. It is the demon, standing like a wall behind me, that keeps me from falling over. His hands feel like vices on my upper arms. He can break me, I realize distantly, through the haze of weariness. He could snap me in half like a twig.

He knows it too. His grip tightens, tightens…then suddenly loosens as his palms slide down, down to my elbows, then in to my waist.

Confusion and alarm makes me come back alive, if barely.

His fingers dig into my ribs. They don't have to go far. No, really, all he has to do is touch and there the bones are. No digging needed.

"Perhaps," comes his whisper, as he bends towards my ear, "…I might have neglected you a bit too much, my little bird. You're no use to me like this."

"Then kill me," I hiss.

He laughs, and the deep rumble vibrates in his chest. "You're no use to me dead, either, darling."

Up and down his hands go, fingers bumping over the ridges of bone like a xylophone, only without the pretty tune. His breath breezes my hair, then something slick and warm touches the rim of my ear. The electric sensations are too much, and I shiver, try to wriggle away. My attempts are as effective as butterfly wings against steel bars.

Does he really need to be so close—to have the side of his face pressed against my head? I don't like his lips at my ear, let alone his tongue. And does he really need to touch me to know I'm weak? Honestly, just _look_ at me. Anger burrows through my staining composure, bares my teeth and makes me hiss. Get away, get away from me, I think to him as if I'm telepathic. Or at least put your cloak back on. Your bare shoulders and those cut-outs in your outfit are really freaking me out. I don't like your skin brushing against me, it's too smooth with hardly any heat—you're not human, _get away from me_!

"So fragile," he coos, hands still playing with my ribs. "So small. My poor little bird. It wouldn't take much to crush you at all."

"Do…it…"

"Tell me where the spirit maiden will go next, and I'll think about it."

My teeth lock together.

His arms come around me, and little by little he squeezes. His body is hard, mine is soft, and it isn't long before I feel my bones creaking. I bite down my whimper. It's okay, I tell myself. It's okay. It'll only hurt for a while, and then it'll be over.

For a moment it almost seems like I will go bravely, but then pain spreads like cracks of lightning and a wild fear shrills up my spine.

"Earth—Temple. F-Fire—Mountain. Mountain!"

My survival instinct pushes out the words, and my hatred towards myself is made complete.

It is at that point I shut down completely. My legs buckle and bend, and then it is truly just Ghirahim that keeps me from the floor. I think of Link. I think of Zelda. I think of all the times I said, "It doesn't matter."

I think of how Link could have died. Of how he could still die.

And then I willingly give myself to the black shroud of unconsciousness.

* * *

I wake up to the slamming of the tower door. My eyelids open half-way, beholding the horizontal view of the stone floor…and the scaly three-toed feet that pad towards me.

Before I can lift my head, a quarter loaf of bread is tossed in front of my face.

"My lord commands you eat," hisses Shii, the Lizalfos. "So eat!"

I stare, motionless, at the bread. I can't really feel my stomach anymore. I can't feel much of anything except the hard stones beneath me, pressing my side. I idly wonder how much longer it would take for me to die of starvation. I wonder if it would be for the best.

"Eat!" Shii kicks the loaf. When it bounces off my nose without so much as a twitch from me, Shii kneels, and a rough finger tilts my face up. "…Are you already in the throes of death, human?"

I stare blankly into its yellow eyes.

Shii grumbles. "I do not care for you, human. But my lord has given an order and if I do not see it through, it will be my head. My head! Do you hear me? You will eat, you will eat if I have to shove it down your throat—you will eat!"

A hard edge glints in Shii's eye, a conviction of steel. I don't care to eat, but I see that look and something twinges in my chest. Your head, huh? Just trying to survive? I know what that's like. But even so, there's…there's a side of me that doesn't want to eat.

Then I think of how unpleasant it would be to have my jaw wrenched open, to be choked with food. I heave a sigh and reach out, pull the bread to my mouth. My bite is weak, my chewing sluggish.

"Eat slow, yes." Shii nods approval that I didn't ask for. "My lord needs you well, and it wouldn't do to have your stomach burst."

Stomach burst? I think incredulously. The heck is it talking about? The stories of the Holocaust survivors come to mind, how Allied soldiers gave them food and they died because its richness overpowered their weakened systems. They were so malnourished their bodies couldn't handle the intake, I guess. But I'm not one of those people. I'm not at that point—far from it. If I was, I'd be just a skeleton in a bag of skin.

My stare lingers on the jutting bone of my wrist, the thinness of my arm. I've lost a lot, yes, but there's still muscle; my body hasn't consumed it all. I'm not in that shatter-glass state. Not yet.

So Shii should just shut up and be glad I'm bothering to eat the stupid—!

My first few swallows hit bottom like a ton of rocks, and my stomach clamps down in violent spasms, like there are two wolves inside me fighting for the scraps. The bread is forgotten as I curl in, clutching my middle.

A glass bottle with red liquid sloshing inside is shoved in my face. "Drink it!"

I comply, but only to make it stop. The potion is cold, and it stings on its way down. It feels like a punch to my gut, but it is the punch that makes the spasms slow.

The Lizalfos stands over me with crossed arms, makes sure I eat the rest. It leaves, takes the bottle with it, then comes back at regular intervals with more bread, some water.

I don't know how much time passes. I sleep. Sometimes I wake up and its pitch black, other times it's the dim-lightbulb hour.

Shii starts adding vegetables with my portions. Sometimes I get fruit too.

What I wouldn't give for some bacon. But I never see a scrap a meat anywhere. Not here, and not on Skyloft for that matter. But it's not like they have the land to raise livestock on; there are barely enough distant islands for crops. Eating Loftwings is unthinkable. Eggs are a major source of protein, and sometimes we'd get fish from the pools, but they're rare and have to be carefully cultivated. And that's about it. The rest being diverse fruits and veggies. Granted the Skyloftians are creative with them, making soups of legumes and roots, creamy sauces of mushrooms and vegetable broths, desserts of pureed berries…

I shouldn't have complained; they gave me what I needed. But I couldn't help it. I missed the food from my previous life. I missed chicken more than anything. Although, I remember hunting parties would sometimes go out to catch those birds that carry rupees in their talons. It's the closest to chicken I've ever gotten in this world, and we only ever had them at important feasts and events.

And now? I get the bare necessities. But I dare not complain, not to these people.

"…Do you really have to watch me?" I ask the Lizalfos at one particular sitting.

"You will eat," it hisses.

"Yeah, yeah. I think that's been established. Can you go? It's hard to chew with you ogling my mouth."

Shii stands with a rod-straight back, arms crossed. Its snout is flatter than that of the other Lizalfos I've seen, and the grim line its mouth is set in makes it look flatter. Its glinting eyes are shadowed by its furrowed brow.

"Sir," I say with semi-sarcasm, because I can't decide if I should be respectful. "You look constipated."

Its brow comes up. "Sir…? I'm female, you nitwit."

I stare. "…Really?"

The frown returns. "Of course. All of my kind are."

I blink. "You're… All Lizalfos are female? How…?" I stop, think. "Oh, wait. So, you're like those desert lizards that reproduce asexually?"

Shii frowns in confusion, maybe because of my mention of otherworldly lizards, but then grunts some kind of affirmation.

"…That's…that's really cool, actually. I never would have guessed that." But, as I think on it now, maybe I should have. Its—I mean, her voice is raspy and low, but definitely still has a feminine quality about it, that slight higher-pitch lilt mixed in.

Shii raises her chin. "So there's something the prophetess does not know?"

I hunch my shoulders. "I don't know everything. Just…some things."

"Important things."

"According to Ghirahim?" I snap, suddenly feeling attacked by her clipped words. "Yes. Apparently so."

Her eyes flash. "That's 'Master' to you, human. I wouldn't be caught calling him anything else in his presence if I were you."

I glare and shove a carrot in my mouth before I start spouting profanities.

And for a moment there, we almost had a pleasant conversation.

* * *

The wind has been quiet these past…however long. It's been quiet, and the stone hasn't been too cold…

Tonight, however, is another matter.

The wind howls and growls, bites into my skin. My tunic is frayed, sleeveless, and I admonish myself for ever ripping those seams during my carefree Skyloft days. My hair is not quite long enough, or thick enough, to offer shelter. Wisps of it flutter at my face, and the longer strands down my back scatter and crawl like a live squid on my head.

My back is pressed against the wall a few feet to the left of the glassless window. I figure if I'm near it, if I'm not right across from it, it won't blast me as bad. Not that it helps much; the wind enters and swirls in the circular chamber like a twister. I bare my teeth as if it's something I can lash out at. I can't, and so I curl over, bury my face in my knees, wrap my arms around my legs.

As I sit there I stew in rage. This wouldn't have happened if I had kept a grip on my bird. This wouldn't have happened if I'd stayed low and stayed with Turk. But, no, I just had to go get more fruit.

At some point, self-blame mutates into the blame of others. I wouldn't be here if anyone had bothered to come rescue me. I was stranded in the forest for eight days before Ghirahim found me. Eight. Frickin'. Days.

My heart boils as I remember Link's face when he saw me. He looked at me like I was a ghost.

No one had been looking for me, I realize. No one had cared. They had left me for dead. Me and my bird.

I should have set fire to their houses before I left that night. I should have punched Pipit right in his stupid face. I should have! Never mind the fact he was trying to stop me from going out that night, that if I had just listened, I wouldn't be in this mess.

Shame cools anger, and I curl tighter against it.

No one liked me, I know. I was a strange child. The child that never acted like a child at all. I disturbed the adults. When they thought I wasn't looking, when they thought I wasn't listening, they looked at me, they spoke of me. Their eyes regarded me like I had a disease as they whispered amongst each other. They asked whoever was housing me that year why I never ran with the other children. They asked why I never played hop-scotch, or hide and seek, or kick the pumpkin, or find the seed. Why did I speak gibberish? Why did my eyes hold a weight a child's had no business bearing? Why did I always just sit or lay around, eyes glazed, staring off into the sky?

They never knew my mind rested in a world far, far away. They never knew they spoke to an adult in the guise of a child. They never knew the gibberish was not gibberish at all, but a language from a civilization they couldn't even begin to comprehend.

 _Lights coming from windows stacked upon windows, stretching up to the sky… Flashing windows that showed people and lives and drama of many other worlds, all condensed into one place for us to see… We know so many more stories than our own._

Closing my eyes, I still see the lights from that world. The lights spanning the heights of the great skytowers. I say 'skytower' because the word 'skyscraper' does not exist in Hylian. Sometimes, when I daydreamed, I caught myself making translations of words and descriptions that weren't possible to make in Hylian, just in case anyone asked, in the vain hope I would be able to share my world with someone, anyone…

But they never asked me, never pried. Perhaps they were afraid of what they might find. And maybe a part of me was afraid to show them. No, that's a lie. Not a part of me, but all of me. What would it help? What would they understand? Would it lessen the isolation? Or would my existence grow colder once I saw they couldn't grasp the world that haunted my every waking thought? Better to leave those questions hanging, to have that vain hope, if only a sliver, than to have it all crushed and be left with nothing.

 _The world I left behind… The people that made up that world… Will I never see them again?_

Confusion and rage ran trenches in my heart. I wasn't where I was supposed to be, and there was no one who could answer the thousand questions racing through my head. I didn't want to be bothered with the little kid games. The games I did want to play, however, were not appreciated. I swung sticks like swords, kicked and bit and clawed like my life depended on it. I played like the little Remlings play, roughhousing in a way that prepared for future conflict.

Angry, scared, and desperate for an outlet.

No one played with me for long. Maybe Link would have, if we had been friends back then. But he and Zelda stayed in their own little group. It was a group I might have been a part of, if I had ever taken the hand Zelda offered to me. I never did, and she wouldn't run me down until much later.

I couldn't stand the children's whining, couldn't bear the time-outs, or the adult's psychoanalyzing questions. Leave me alone. I want to go home. Leave me alone!

 _They never wanted you there anymore than you wanted to be there._

My hands press over my ears, fingers tangle in my hair, trying to blot out the yowling wind and the voice in my head that says, _Scream, scream, go ahead and scream. No one will hear you. Scream._

 _Boom!_ goes the thunder, and with it there is a loud banging, and my head jerks up. The white specter with the blood cape stands in the now open doorway. The wind blows his hair back, revealing the black diamond mark under his left eye, and the blue diamond earring on his right ear glints as it swings. With a snap of his fingers golden panes of diamonds flash to life in the window and the wind ceases. His black eyes bore into me in the sudden quiet.

"Your aura is loud, little bird." The stone chamber gives his sharp voice an echoic quality.

"…So sorry to disturb you." I glare straight ahead, daring him to come closer.

 _If only I had a dagger._

My bravery falters as Ghirahim strides towards me, as if hearing my silent challenge, and I immediately lower my head in deference. His feet come into my vision and I watch them, waiting to be kicked.

There is another snap, a metallic whisper of magic.

Suddenly something soft plops on top of my head. A thick blanket drapes down, covering me in a shroud of dark. I freeze, confused, still waiting for that kick. But those white-covered feet remain on the floor.

There is a sigh. "Can you do nothing for yourself?"

My brain grinds to a halt when he kneels. The blanket is unfolded, adjusted around my head and down my shoulders like a cape.

I slowly lift my head, stare blankly into dark eyes. "Why aren't you kicking me?" I blurt.

He stops what he is doing, smirks. "Did you want to be kicked, little bird?"

I don't answer. He'll kick me if I say yes, he'll kick me if I say no.

He chuckles lightly, like there was some slightly amusing joke, and continues to pull the blanket, framing my face. I do nothing but gawk like a wondering owl as he reaches in the hood to push flyaway hair behind my ears. My mind cannot process it. What is this? What happened to the demon who threatened to crush me? Who is this person? I thought I knew.

When his fingertips glide over the round rims of my ears, my brain sharpens back to attention. "Go ahead," I snap, "Poke fun at them. Everyone does. I don't care."

He regards me, cocks his head to the side. "…And why would I do that? They're lovely."

I jerk back as if I've been slapped.

"After all," he continues, pulling away the hair that drapes over the left side of his face, "I have one just like them."

My eyes widen as I take in the sight of a pale rounded ear, completely mismatched from the pointed one on his right. My stare darts between the two, mind stuttering: Hylian, elvish; Earthling, human—as if all other descriptors have ceased to exist. Is he neither or is he both? My heart gives a ping towards the latter, a sense of nostalgia and belonging welling, trickling into the parched holes littering the tender surface. But my mind reawakens, stems the flow, and reasserts its defenses: a barricade that allows no trust to form. This is not an Earthling, I remind. Not one of your realm. But why does he have that ear then, I wonder. I scour my knowledge but find no answer.

His hair slides between his fingers, and the white curtain falls back into place. "Granted yours aren't as lovely as mine, but then you couldn't begin to hope they would be."

A laugh bubbles in my chest and a toothy smile takes a shaky place on my face. "Now there's something you'd say," I whisper, mostly to myself, relieved by the familiar. Even so, I am disturbed and confused by the unfamiliar. "Now, why're you really here? I doubt it was because you thought I might be cold."

He leans back, and a hand covers where his heart would be if he had one. "You wound me, little bird. Do you think me incapable of consideration?"

I clamp my mouth, but the laugh escapes through my nose in a snort. I panic, and words slip. "Demon, the only thing you care about is your master." I shrink into the blanket, as if the scratchy wool is protective chainmail, whispering, "…Or should I call you 'Weapon'?"

I am prepared for a hit, a slash, or even a cutting remark. But what I get is reverberating laughter, bouncing off the stone walls, and it scares me more than a glare ever could. Careful, I tell myself. Careful.

"You're well informed," he says once he calms. "Which is why I have to wonder…"

I snarl, bare weak human fangs, as I am yanked forward by the throat.

"Why the spirit maiden isn't where you said she'd be!" His snarl is so much fiercer, his fangs so much larger.

I hiss as his iron grip hardens. My mind spins out of control, searching, grasping for a reason that will seem forthcoming, but still leave him in the dark. "It's—it's where she'll go."

My heart quickens at his dark, unblinking gaze. "Why isn't she there yet?"

Anger swells, combats fear, and I puff up. "I don't know everything, you know! My—" Think, think, quick, quick. "My visions, my dreams, come in fragments. And they only show key elements. The mountain is where she'll go. It's where she _has_ to go."

"Where on the mountain?"

"…She'll go up. That's all I know!" I bark as his fingers dig into my windpipe. "Up!"

He releases me as he stands, smoothing his hair as well as his composure. "Very well. I've already sent troops there anyway. They'll report to me at the first sign of her. And if she doesn't show…"

I scoff so loud it almost sounds like a forced cough.

Steel glints in Ghirahim's eyes. "Don't get complacent with me, sky child. I promise you won't like the results."

Energy from the food and the warmth from the blanket ignite the fire burning in my gut. A frenzied smile spreads slowly, revealing a wall of teeth, and eyes widen with a wild spark. "Give me a dagger, 'Master,' and I'll show you how _complacent_ I can be."

I keep my joyless smile in the resounding silence that spills between us. I do not look away, I do not blink. Neither does Ghirahim.

And then that arrogant smile of his slits his lips upwards, and his amused chuckle fills the room. "Ah, yes. I've missed our little game. And I see you're feeling better. Don't worry, darling. We'll play again very soon." He leans forward on his hips, his shadow stretching over me. "And this time, I won't forget about you…Kya."

* * *

 **A/N: Only in my headcanon are all Lizalfos female, but only certain strains of the species. Dinolfos and others I consider to have the usual male/female ratio.  
**

 **So how was it? I hope you enjoyed reading! See you next time. ^_^**


	6. tag, tag, you're it

**A/N: Thank you** **DiscountPineapple, Moon ninja Luna, Wounded Wing, Guest, PokemonTrainer4700, Walavouchey, and Guest. I really enjoyed reading your reviews and really liked seeing your observations and speculations on aspects of the story. Thanks for keeping me motivated too. :)  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 6**

I eat as much as they'll give me. I drink the same. I will not be as weak and incapacitated as I was in the Sky Temple. Not again.

I throw the blanket off as the Lizalfos dump buckets on me, wring my hair and clothes out before returning to the scratchy wool. I march behind Shii as she takes me to the bathroom, keep a façade of straightforward resolution as my eyes dart every which way, trying to memorize halls and turns.

We have to go down numerous flights of stairs. More than once do I think of pushing her down them, watching as her body tumbles. I restrain myself, however, as it is uncertain if I'll be able to shove her with enough strength, or if she'll just whirl around and backhand me after the attempt. I know how Lizalfos fight. Even if I succeed, she'll likely catch herself mid-roll, race back up steps she's fallen over, and bruise me until I can't walk.

I think she senses my contemplated intentions. If I stare at her back too hard, she glares over her shoulder, hisses through rows of sharp, needle-like teeth.

That's right, I think. Lizalfos can feel when someone is watching, can sense their enemy's malice. It's why sniping them with arrows never worked. Shii will know I'm going to push her right before I actually do, and she'll side-step, and then _I'll_ be the one tumbling down the flight of stairs.

A foiled endeavor before it could even begin.

My fingers twitch from where they hang at my sides. This antsy feeling won't go away. I need to do something, I need to get out. There is a feral instinct in me that demands freedom. But no matter what I think of, the end result is failure.

The shadows sway along with the flickering torches lining the endless stone walls. I think of grabbing one, using the fire as a weapon. Could I even wrest it from the stone? They don't look detachable. Stone and metal does not easily come apart. If only I had a dagger, a knife, something… My eyes wander to Shii's holsters. If I could be quick enough, if I could mask my intent...

And then I think of the follow through. Stabbing her. Shoving the blade into her spine, her gut, her…everything. The mere thoughts make my heart cringe. There can be no hesitation and, and…I'll hesitate. Just like I froze with the Bokoblin, back in the forest. Only Shii won't be at my mercy. I'll be at _hers_.

I remember the blood, the spray of the Bokoblin that covered me. Blood everywhere, soaking my clothes, dripping from my blade.

My legs freeze. I stop with one foot down and the other stuck on the step above. My arms come up to curl in front of my chest, bird wings bent against an onslaught of images pelting like icy rain. I can't, I can't, I don't want to, says a small, frightened voice within me. _What choice?! Must fight!_ screams another like an illiterate cavewoman.

"What are you doing, human?" Shii has turned, sleek tail sweeping the stairs in twitchy, irritated swips.

What choice would I have? Maybe I could just wound her. But then, even if I managed to get away from Shii, how am I supposed to get out of this…dimension, or whatever it is. This dark world.

"I asked you a question," she hisses.

And if I escape this place… Oh, who am I kidding? I won't even be able to get out of the castle before Ghirahim catches me. And then he'll have fun enacting a punishment, no doubt.

My wrist is snatched by a scaled palm. "Keep moving, human, or I'll drag you back to your cell!"

My teeth bare automatically at Shii's growling tone, and from the pain of her grip. " _You're lucky I don't have a shotgun!_ " I spew in English, meekness overridden by sudden rage.

Shii's yellow glare goes blank. "What?"

"…Nothing. I have to pee."

Her snout wrinkles. "Well, you don't seem to be in any hurry. I think you can hold it a while longer."

And with that she forces me back up the stairs.

I wince as she guides me by the nape of my neck, and my hands clench into fists. " _If I had a shotgun, if I had a pistol, I wouldn't have to worry about being squeamish. I'd shoot first and ask questions later!_ " English bounces around the stairway, because I'm not brave enough to mouth-off otherwise, apparently. " _Actually, I'm rethinking the whole knifing thing, too!_ "

" _Shaa haaf ssil._ "

I blink at the whispery, snake-like words. "…What?"

Shii grunts. "I asked what you speak. It is not Lizalfos tongue, or Bokoblin, or any other kind of dialect I've heard for that matter. Is it words at all, human, or are you spouting random nonsense?"

My brain takes a moment to process. "Wait, you guys…all have your own languages?"

A snort. "Prophet that knows nothing. Obviously we do."

I blink repeatedly as comprehension slowly occurs, try to throw a questioning glance at Shii. "Do you all know Hylian?"

"Very few are educated in your tongue, human."

Images flash before my mind's eye, of a boy in green fighting hordes of silent adversaries. A language barrier, huh? Well, that explains the lack of banter between Link and his enemies.

"…So how do they understand Ghirahim?"

Shii's claws prink into my neck. "Do you think my lord a simpleton? He knows the languages."

"Which ones?"

"All of them."

My mind stutters. "Oh. Cool. I…I could never learn any other languages, when, uh…" I trail off, not sure how to explain my previous life's schooling.

"I'm not surprised. You _are_ very stupid."

My teeth clench, and I refuse to speak to Shii any further.

 _Shoooot her_! echoes a Jurassic movie quote from another world. _Shoooot heeeeerrr!_

My fingers curl around an imaginary trigger. If only, I think. If only.

* * *

A large part of me said to disregard Ghirahim's promise—or threat, as it were—and I was content to wallow in solitude. He's shown in-game to be thoughtless concerning humans (concerning _anyone, anything_ , except for himself and his master) and he's forgotten me before. But that was just hopefulness getting the better of me, wasn't it? I shouldn't have been shocked when he walked through the door, blade in hand.

A bead of red trails down my arm, leaving a bloody line in its wake.

I wasn't fast enough.

With heart hammering and lungs heaving, I stagger back to my feet. The side of me that doesn't want to fight has been rather loud lately, and it's been lulling my thoughts, stalling my movements. Now, however, I find myself snapped back to reality. The cut high up on my arm sears with pain, and it is the pain that paves the road for anger.

I doubt a shotgun would harm Ghirahim, but, oh, how I'd _love_ to try. Just to see those balls of lead pepper him, even if they're likely to bounce off with sparks…heh, I bet it'd shock him good, and seeing that expression would be more than worth the futility. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with a dagger. But I guess I can't complain. At least I have something.

I grip the dagger's hilt so tightly it burns my palm. It's one of Shii's, but I'm wishing it was one of Ghirahim's. Then I'd actually have a chance at hurting him.

Hysteria runs rampant, trampling the fear that shivers beneath my skin, and my feral grin surfaces. It clashes with the tranquil, smug smile he wears so coolly.

But I'll settle for any kind of slashing and dashing, so long as I can best him, even if in a mere game of tag. Winning is subjective to me; I know I'll never truly defeat him, so I come up with my own rules in my head. If I hit him, I 'tag' him, and if I tag him, I win. A small victory that means nothing in the grand scheme, but for now it is only these little triumphs that keep me from falling into a hopeless abyss.

I run at him, going low in reaction to a horizontal slash he has scarcely begun to commit. I fake a charge at his stomach, slide around him to get at his back instead. He follows, pivots on his feet. I throw myself through the gap between his legs. When I shoot up, I am back to back with him. I do not have time to turn around, so I jab, jab, jab my dagger behind me, aiming for his side, his spine, anything. There are loud clangs. Is it him? Or did he block it with his blade?

When I dash away and whirl around, I see him. Just him. His black sword is nowhere near the strike zone. He did not block it.

My lips twitch, manic grin falling into a sincere smile that feels more like sadness. "Tag," I whisper, "you're it."

I remember enough of his moves from the game, and my body is now healthy enough to keep up, if barely. So when he starts teleporting, he doesn't catch me unawares. If anything, he's given me an advantage by doing so. I know exactly what to do.

As soon as I see those diamond flurries I'm turning and slicing.

He's the one caught unaware.

I look forward to the surprise on his face, expect it. And so when I am met, instead, with a widened smile, I cannot fathom it.

The demon struts backwards like he's on parade, snaps his fingers. The red-glow blades materialize before him, hovering, spinning.

My breath catches. Here's my chance.

Just one. I just need one.

The daggers shoot forward, red light glaring a path behind them. The Lizalfos dagger clatters to the floor. My heart leaps to my throat as I run to meet them, twisting to the side at the last minute, reaching out.

Blood and pain gather in my palm as it closes around blade. I didn't quite make the hilt. I guess that's what I get for being overzealous, but at least I caught it. I transfer it to my right hand, let the bloodied left hang at my side, and fight back the tears, bite down the whimpers.

Ghirahim tilts his head. "And what do you think you're going to do with that?"

"Um, stab you?" I squeak, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing ach of my palm.

"Is that so?" He smiles, and then snaps his fingers.

The glowing dagger disappears in panes of black and gold diamond.

My hearts stops for a second. And then it goes double-speed. "Son of a bi—!" I bite my tongue, and then, "That's not FAIR! I—you! You—!"

I hunch over, gripping my injured hand to my stomach, with every known curse word, both Hylian and English, surging through my head. Eventually it comes out as a strangled scream, filling the room, threatening to burst it apart. Ghirahim's laughter rises in the after-echoes. My glare glints with tears. I blink rapidly to rein them back in.

"You are just too _fun_ , darling!"

"I gonna kill. Everyone. You love." After I say it, my snarl flips into a fit of giggles. Just as quickly as it came on, it stops, and my face goes deadpan blank. "…It's funny because you don't love anyone."

His wicked smile holds no remorse, and he raises his hands in a half-hearted shrug. "Who says I don't?"

I burst into laughter—cut it off abruptly. "…Oh, I'm sorry, was that not a joke?"

Diamonds flash and Ghirahim disappears within them. Before I can turn around, I am thrust into the cold, hard stone of the floor. A great weight presses me down and it feels like a tree has fallen on me.

But it's not a tree. It's a demon.

His right arm comes around my throat, while his left hand pins my wrist out from me. My unrestrained right arm stretches, hand pawing at the ground, clawing out for freedom.

"Now, now, little bird," he whispers in my ear, "what have we learned about letting our guard down?"

"P-Piss off!" I say it in pure panic, do not think of the consequences.

His arm tightens, pulls upward, and I am made to arch with it to keep breathing, fighting for every quivering intake of air.

"Manners," he hisses. Then his tone goes back to pleasant. "Now, how are you going to get out of this one?"

"Please…get off me."

"Oh, she knows how to say 'please'!" he says excitedly before his tone goes dark. "Try again."

 _Get off me, get off me, getoffme!_ My mental demands go unmet, and my eyes zip to and fro. They land on Shii, standing ever-vigilant by the door. Humiliation rises to my cheeks at the witness. It was one thing for her to watch me fight a losing battle, and now to see me pinned down and subjugated? I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to bear it.

And yet, for some strange reason, I get the urge to tell her to run. Save yourself. As if she's next or something.

His arm is constricting.

My right hand searches in tandem with my mind. It's difficult for anything to move, even my thoughts, with this slab of rock bearing down on me. The skin of his coiling arm is cool and smooth like iron, and I distantly realize there is no heat seeping through my clothing from him. Yet the breath breezing at my ear is oddly warm. It is then I am reminded: this is a sword spirit on top of me, not a human. Not a human, no human weaknesses. Unstoppable at this point in time. I deflate at the thought, going limp.

"Giving up?" There is a hint of triumph in his voice, along with a ting of disappointment. It is the latter that confuses me.

I am arched up further, and my control snaps.

I twist my head, bite at his face, teeth clamping together with a resounding click. He only has to jerk back slightly, and my peripheral shows his amusement at the attempt.

It is then my right hand comes around with the Lizalfos dagger. I aim for his eye.

The dagger point does not connect before he rears up, but my neck is released, and that is what I was really going for.

My victory is short lived, however, as he grabs my nape and slams me facedown before I can scramble away. He straddles me, his weight resting solidly on the small of my back. He growls, hand squeezing my neck, tighter, tighter.

And then in the next moment he's chuckling, death-hold loosening. "Clever, darling. I didn't see that coming."

"You should have," I grind out, "considering it was coming for your eye."

The soft laughter that resonates from above me is…it's... Well, if I didn't know any better I'd say it was almost…genuine.

Too bad I do know better. It's probably just some weird variation of condescending that I'm not used to.

"…Can I get up now?"

"Mmm, say the magic words."

Oh, hello overgrown demon child. I didn't know that saying existed in this world too.

"…Please?" I hiss.

"Please, what?"

My mind falters.

His hand presses me as he leans down to my ear again. "Who am I, servant?"

My molars grind against each other, and I lace as much sarcasm as I can get away with into my high-pitch, pleading words. "Please, 'Master,' oh please let me up." _Dickwad_ , goes unsaid.

His weight leaves me in one swift motion.

I'm really starting to suspect Ghirahim can't detect sarcasm.

Before I can get up, a bottle of red potion bonks me on the head and topples to the floor. I grab it as it tries to roll away.

The demon sighs. "Well, that was a nice little distraction, but unfortunately I'm still feeling irritated."

He makes a show of pacing back and forth, and my eyes follow him, even as I sit up and uncork the bottle. I am not fooled by the nonchalant swing of his arms, or the careless loll of his head. When he stops in front of me suddenly, every fiber of me tenses. He crouches, eyes sparking with dark intent, and asks the question I knew he would.

"Where is the spirit maiden, little bird?" His tone is courtly enough, but then it dives into a drastic snarl with, "I'm getting tired of waiting!"

My heart flutters like the beat of little wings, afraid, wanting to fly, to get away. I choose my words with the same care of diffusing a bomb. "…There is a spring somewhere on the mountain, a spring she must go to in order to awaken her true self. She will be there. As for her lateness…you can ask her when you see her."

Ghirahim shoots into a standing position, and despite the steel clamp of my will, I flinch. He resumes pacing, only there is no air of nonchalance now. Now he is as a caged tiger, beyond ready to be set loose.

The trembling I've so carefully kept under my skin is borrowing its way to the surface. The red liquid in the bottle ripples with the mini vibrations running through my arm. I do not want him to see my fear; I want him gone— _go away!_

Suddenly an idea strikes me. My eyes go wide, as wide as I can make them go.

Geez, I hope this works. Or I'm in for a beating.

"Shattered key…"

He turns to me. "What?"

"The shatter—shattered key," I say distantly, stare focused on something far away.

When he crouches back in front of me and glares into my eyes the act almost breaks, and I am forced to lie not only to him, but to myself. Yes, this is really happening, I say to me. You are having a vision, you are having a vision, your head hurts, you cannot see in front of you—look through him, through him…

"The key, they broke…the key." Restraint fades and the trembling is allowed out. "Not the only one after her. You're not the only one…after her…"

Ghirahim's hand grasps my shoulder and I jerk under his touch. Shivering, shivering, I keep the faraway look, and suddenly I find my head really does hurt. White, white, buzzing at the edge of my mind.

"Your aura is…" He doesn't finish.

I snap back, stare refocusing on the demon. My brows come down sharply. "Why'd your Bokoblins break the key to the mountain door?"

His eyes narrow. "Why don't you tell me?"

I shrug. "I dunno. I saw someone going that way, up the mountain. Except the key to the mountain door was broken...and they were stuck, I think?"

Ghirahim stands.

"Sooo," I egg on, "is the mountain door still open or…?"

He snaps his fingers, the panes of diamonds blare, and then he's gone. Just like I wanted.

A small part of me twinges with regret. I hope I didn't sic him on those poor Bokoblins.

Huh, I think. When I played the game, I always thought it odd how the Bokoblins were smart enough to not only shatter the key to the Earth Temple, but to hide the pieces as well. Maybe...maybe they weren't. Maybe Ghirahim ordered them to do so. And what incited him to give that order…

Nah. I shake my head. I'm thinking too much. I'm not the cause of anything; I'm not even meant to be here. It'll happen no matter what I…

There I go again. I squeeze shut my eyes, fight off the careless mentality. I may not be prominent enough to change things drastically, but I can make Link's life more difficult if I'm not careful… After that thought, I curse, realizing I did just that by breaking up the key. I'll just have to—

"Mumbling to yourself again, human?"

The English fragments I didn't know were leaking forth are stopped.

I glare at Shii, and grumble, "Never a moment of peace."

But the language of my true people continues on, even as I think up ways to help Link, the Hylian syllables slowly being overcome, piece by piece. Those words of another world lull me into a sense of calm, replaying in my head until I can hear nothing else.

* * *

My sleep is mostly consumed by blackness, exhaustion being too great to allow any images to break free, to show themselves in dreams.

Tonight I dream.

I dream of little white churches, of people singing, of people dancing, against the backdrop of gray, dreary city. I dream of hallelujahs shouted in spite of grief, of thankful smiles in in the face of poverty. I dream of a flower blooming between the cracks of concrete, a colorful silhouette swaying to an unheard song on the sidewalk.

A woman with dark skin and reddish hair appears before my mind's eye. Her smile is soft, kind. I do not know her, but she reminds me of a friend I used to have.

 _Used to have…_

I wake to blackness, fall back to sleep, to the colors.

I dream of a dog leading a blind man through a bustling intersection, impatient horns beeping, the hum of people drowning out the singing birds overhead. The man and the dog march on, undisturbed by the noise and glare.

I know that dog, I know that man. I watched them cross that intersection many times.

 _They march on even when I am not there to see them…_

The images switch suddenly, like a television channel, to a man and woman, both dressed in clean-cut business suits. They stand side by side. A young man is with them, but he stands farther away, too far to reach out and touch. The shadows of their backs face me as they walk away. I am left under the awning of the little white church, and it has gone strangely silent.

 _I dream of life in death, yet I cannot find either._

The funeral choir has stopped playing; the melancholic chords of Ave Maria have faded into the quiet. The people file out of the church, spreading out, spilling into the gray city. They walk by me, around me, through me, until there are none left. They are no longer with me; I am no longer with them.

 _I stopped praying a long time ago…._

I wake again to the blackness of the tower, only this time my face is wet, and in my delirium I can't figure out why.

* * *

 _You've forgotten me, haven't you?_

 _In a world so far away, you've all moved on._

 _I shouldn't be surprised, but…_

 _I am._

 _I know I said I wouldn't be but I am._

 _So despairingly, crushingly, am._

* * *

Waiting. Most of my time is spent waiting.

I don't know when the sun came up. I opened my eyes to its dim, ever concealed light. The clouds never dissipate in this place. Thunder rolls with the charging storm heads, riding on the wind, softly this time, distantly. But it'll come close sooner or later.

Ghirahim's magic has faded from the window. The golden panes of diamond glass are gone, and the tower breathes in the damp air precedent of rain.

I keep the wool blanket wrapped round me as I sit cross-legged and hunched over, head bowed, eyes closed. Waiting.

Maybe…just maybe I should be praying.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, and pressure builds within them.

 _I've already prayed a thousand prayers..._

The thunder is coming closer.

The door slams open, hitting and bouncing off the wall so hard it chips the stone. When I raise my head I expect to see Ghirahim.

I see Shii instead, standing in the doorway, chest heaving and eyes glistening.

"I. Have had. ENOUGH!" she growls so fiercely I flinch.

I cannot look away from the rows of needle teeth she has bared, even as she stalks up to me and snatches my wrist in a crushing grip.

"You are coming with me, and YOU are going to fix it!"

I cannot form a reply, am not given time to. I stumble behind Shii as she drags me out of the tower and down the long spiral stairs.

* * *

 **A/N: Jurassic Park reference for the win? Well, I hope you enjoyed reading. I'll try to get the next chapter out soon. =^.^=  
**


	7. songbird

**A/N: I'm on a roll with this story. The plot bunnies want what the plot bunnies want.**

 **Thank you DiscountPineapple, Moon ninja Luna, Walavouchey, SarukoDark, and Maybe for reviewing last chapter(s) and giving your opinions. It means a lot. ^_^ I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

I am taken down farther than I have ever been before. A small part of me ignites with hope. Is she taking me out of here? Has she seen the grievous error of her lord's ways?

But I am not taken to any kind of exit. Down, down, down, and then through twisting corridors. When we finally arrive at a large wooden door, Shii throws it open. What greets me on the other side is…is…

What the heck is this?

Fire roars in a hearth that must be at least seven feet wide. A cauldron hangs over the licking flames, fastened by an iron pole that spans the brick laden indent. In the center of the room is a stone table, just as long and wide as the hearth set behind it. To the left looks to be a set of impossibly large stone sinks; I could easily take a bath in them. To the right seems to be…some kind of stove. It is a slab of smooth rock supported upon bricks. There are arches laid in the brick, and through those holes wood has been shoved in, and fire crackles inside, casting out an orange glow. Pans and pots and skillets of copper and iron are strewn about, hanging from the ceiling, hooked on the walls.

Water hisses from the cauldron, snapping my attention back to the hearth.

My eyes widen as realization slowly dawns.

Holy crap. They're about to throw me in a pot.

I rear back for the door, knocking into Shii in the process. The Lizalfos unsheathes her needle teeth and shoves me forward. I stumble, knock into the center table. I grab one of the pots and fling it at her. It clangs and bounces off her guarding wrist, which is armored by a sleek silver gauntlet. She dives for me, attempts to pin me to the table, but I sail to the side. Shii slides along the table like a panther, hissing through her teeth, yellow eyes flashing with malice. I hiss back, arm blindly waving out behind me for something else to throw. My fingers grip a cast-iron pan just as I back up on the sinks—nowhere else to go.

"You think I'll go quietly?" I snarl.

"You will!" Shii hisses, spittle flecking from her maw.

I ready the pan like a baseball bat, prepare to swing. Shii prepares to lunge.

A high-pitch _Eeep!_ pierces the air between us. Shii and I both freeze.

A shadow peeks over the rim of the table, yellow eyes glittering with fear. "W-What's happening?" comes a soft, whispery voice.

"Get back under the table, Essil," replies Shii. "I'll take care of this."

"I-I don't want any more of this." The shadow's neck stretches up, fully revealing the face of a Lizalfos with light purple scales. "I've had enough violence today!"

Shii flinches at the pleading voice and slowly, very slowly, retracts from her aggressive pose. She stands tall, folds her arms over her chest, and glares holes into me.

My eyes dart between the two. "What's going on?"

"Please." The purple Lizalfos stands and scurries around the table, but hesitates at the corner. She chooses to keep the table between us. "I-I just need help—I can't—!"

"It's all right, Essil." Shii narrows her glare into me. "The human will fix it."

My stare continues to dart, the frying pan in my grip still ready to be swung. "I'm going to fix…what?"

Essil wrings her hands. "Something, anything. Oh, he hates everything I make!"

I blink. "Wait, what?"

Shii snarls. "You will be cooking, idiot!"

My brain flat lines. I stare at one Lizalfos, then the other, trying to discern any deception from their features. Shii glowers at me as she always has. This new Lizalfos, Essil, on the other hand gazes with the most watery, beseeching eyes I've ever seen. She's strange looking, what with those purple scales that fade to lavender at her belly and up to her neck, much like how Shii's scales fade to a light, almost yellowish green in the same areas. And whereas Shii's yellow crest is feathery, almost akin to hair, Essil's orange crest is webbed and ruffled. Her face reminds me of a gecko. Her snout is narrower than Shii's, her eyes are bigger, rounder, and have an almost glazed look to them.

"You…" I start slowly, "…want me to cook?"

Shii snorts, throws up her hands. "The human finally gets it."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Essil has taken to wringing her apron now.

I lower the cast iron pan. "O—kay? Why?"

"None of your concern!" Shii barks. "Just do it!"

Essil ducks her head, hunches her shoulders. It is then I notice the marks dotting her arms. The scales are darker, bruised looking, as if blood has congealed under them. "He hates everything I make." Her voice wobbles, and suddenly I understand.

Anger sparks in my gut, my eyes harden. "Seriously? If he doesn't like it he doesn't have to eat it!"

"Oh, he doesn't," Essil supplies mournfully. "He throws it at me."

The urge to hit something swings the pan up, but as I cannot find a target to strike it hangs up there. "How does Ghirahim even need to eat?! He's a freaking sword!"

The room goes completely silent.

"Not many are privy to that information, Prophet," Shii says quietly, eyes narrowed to slits. "I'd keep your voice down if I were you."

The pan plops down to my side. "Is it a secret or something?"

"No. But even so, he is lord of this land, and that is all his followers need to know."

I shrug uncertainly, not understanding. "Okay…?"

Shii points to the stove. "Do something."

I sneer at her tone, but walk over to the stone and brick stove regardless. Once in front of it, I stand and stare at its surface, feel the heat wafting up from the slab.

"Well?" Shii comes up behind me.

"You didn't answer why he needs food."

"He doesn't. But if he prefers to indulge, then it is not for you to question."

"But it is for you to change cooks without him knowing?"

Shii growls, and I smile at the struck nerve.

"I follow my lord's commands, human! He never specified who had to cook it, and Essil has taken enough hits for today."

The smile is wiped from my face, and I glance at the trembling Lizalfos, still wringing her apron.

I sigh. "Fine. I'll try. But I'll need you to get some things for me."

* * *

I'm no master chef. I wouldn't even call myself a decent cook. But in all the years of my previous life where I had to fix dinner for my little brother, I've never poisoned him.

It was the same thing nearly every time. Our parents would work late, and it was just me and him. I'd put together something easy, like soup or sandwiches—or spaghetti if I was feeling fancy. When laziness weighed me down, I'd order pizza.

But it wasn't like my mother cooked either. If they happened to come home on time, we'd go out to eat.

They never came home on time except for special occasions…

Whatever. As if it ever mattered.

Cold hard granite, polished mahogany, and stainless steel surrounded my brother and me. An overpriced kitchen for two.

"Sooo," I'd say to my brother, "what do you want?"

He'd be sitting at the kitchen island with his nose stuck in a book, his brown hair frizzing despite being carefully combed, black rimmed glasses reflecting the warm glow of the overhead lights. He would almost always shrug his preference.

Except one night, when he said, "Anything but spaghetti."

"What? What's wrong with spaghetti?"

He put the book down, sent me a deadpan look. "We've had it for three nights in a row. It's time to stop."

I scoffed. "Fine. Chicken?"

An edge of fear stole into his stare. "The last time you tried to cook chicken, it was so dry I thought I was eating sand!"

I threw my hands up. "Oh, come on!"

"It was!"

"Fine. Sandwiches it is."

He groaned, but relented, and went back to his book on…law? Ew. Have fun with that, I remember thinking. He was always such a nerd. I guess I was kind of a nerd too, but not in the ways it counted. Whereas he chased the knowledge of concrete realism, I flittered after the wonders of the abstract and idealistic. I was a video game nerd, not a budding scientist or lawyer.

"Hey, Marky," I whispered conspiringly after 'dinner'. "Wanna play Zelda?"

"I told you not to call me that." My brother turned a page, kept on reading. "Later. I have a test coming up."

I scowled. "You always have a test coming up."

"It's college. What do you expect? Maybe you'd know if you actually attended."

Anger mounted when the subject my parents had repeatedly shoved to my attention was brought up, and I snapped, "And do what exactly? Waste my time fumbling around only to find I'm not good at anything? No thanks. I have better things to blow money on."

He gave me a look from over the rim of his glasses. "Mom and Dad won't support you forever. They said so."

"I have a job!" I shouted, shooting out of my chair. "As if I don't do anything! You know what? Make your own damn sandwiches next time!"

My bedroom door slammed, and I played Skyward Sword by myself. I swung the wii-mote like an actual weapon, wishing it was one. I didn't understand; Mark used to love playing games with me.

He did play every now and again, but…he was getting so busy. So busy. Just like Mom and Dad.

 _Am I remaining a child who just plays games? While everyone else is moving on, leaving me behind?_

I used to think that. I used to cry in my room, in the dead of night, when no one else was home. A grown woman, waiting like a frightened little girl. The blinking lights of the city outside my window, so high up, did little to assuage the loneliness. Are they not coming home? Don't leave me behind.

But in the end, I was the one who left them behind.

I giggle at the thought, but then stop quickly. That's not funny. I don't know why I laughed.

Hot breath gusts down my neck, pulling me from times long gone.

I glance over my shoulder, and innocently ask, "Can sword spirits be poisoned?"

I dodge Shii's responding strike, laughing as I do so. The only reason I even said it is because she keeps watching me like a hawk, peering over my shoulder, constantly following behind me. Does she honestly think I'm going to slip something in the dish? Pssh, as if. Even if I had poison on me, I doubt it would harm Ghirahim.

Essil is another matter. She actually helps me, gets ingredients I need, and patiently listens, tries to understand, when I ask for something she's never heard of. I was accurately able to describe tomatoes, having forgotten the Hylian word in my overcrowded bubbled brain, but now I struggle articulating noodles. English words mix in with the Hylian, and I stutter when I am unable to find a translatable alternative. I enunciate slowly, as most people do when dealing with opposing languages, as if the sluggish tone will magically render the words understandable.

"They should be long and skinny. It's _pasta_. _Pas-ta_."

No matter how I say it, Essil blinks so slowly, I hear her eyelids pop with the motion.

It doesn't help that she isn't completely fluent in Hylian either. And Shii doesn't help because, and I repeat, "It's a good opportunity for her to learn." Whatever that means. How is she supposed to learn if you don't help her? When I pose the question, Shii responds with, "Experience." I snort. Shii glares.

"Okay, um…do you have any kind of noodles at all?"

"I—I could make some."

I smile, or try to. Uncertainty makes it falter at the corners. I've been so used to the manic smile that a real one feels strange on my face. "That'd be great. I'll help right after I'm done with the tomatoes."

The sauce I've done many times, but I've never made spaghetti noodles from scratch before. This should be interesting. And if he doesn't like it, well he can chuck it at me all he likes. I'm not picky, and the sauce will be delicious. I snicker, picturing myself pulling limp noodles from my face, raking sauce from my hair, slurping it all down right in front of a disgusted Ghirahim.

Yeah. That'll teach him.

The tasks go by rather quickly, as most busy work does. I watch the bubbling tomato mixture, hot pads in hand, because there isn't a dial or anything to gauge the temperature. When it begins to froth, I take it off, let it simmer on the stone table, and then go assist Essil. She watches me keenly as I roll the dough, head tilted to the side, a claw tip pressed to her lip.

I grunt in dissatisfaction. "They're supposed to be smaller than this…"

"P-Perhaps if you…" Essil trails off and clasps her hands, fearful uncertainty flashing in her eyes.

I glower at the dough sponged in my hands. When my frustration becomes more and more apparent, Essil jumps in like a cricket. With deft hands she rolls it all out flat, and as I watch her I recognize her skill. This isn't some stupid lizard, I realize. She knows what she's doing, and she still got roughed up by that demon… A sinking feeling settles in my gut. My eyes linger on Essil's bruises. Something pangs in my chest, sharp and smarting. It spawns a conviction. I'll take the hits for her this time. Tch, not like I don't take any anyway.

"Now m-maybe if we cut the strips you need?"

I perk at the idea. "That sounds…a lot easier, actually." _That and I get to hold a knife again_ , comes a thought from a certain side of me. _Maybe I could stow the knife away…_

But Shii is there, her glare never straying as I cut long strips from the flattened dough, and once I am done she snaps the blade from my grasp. I swallow my disappointment and mask it so she will not see, so she will not feel justified.

As the noodles cook, Essil tells me she's never seen such skinny ones. I smile at her, trying to mask the wistfulness of my expression. Suddenly there is an urge to tell her about all the various foods of my previous world, to describe the wonder of the restaurants, the awesomeness of risotto, the hilarity of eating while Gordon Ramsay spews profanities at his kitchen staff on TV—okay, that's a bit too far. To share the simple joys of chicken noodle soup eaten at home.

I bite it down. She wouldn't understand.

"Oh." Essil wrings her apron. "What if he doesn't like it?"

"Then he'll have me to blame," I say. "Don't worry."

"Such a strange concoction," Shii grumbles. "Are you sure about this?"

I bat away their doubts. "Too late now; it's almost done."

When the spaghetti is plated, with sauce carefully added on top, I stare at it with something akin to longing. Memories of times and of a world far away knock at my mind's door, hoping for a visit. And I can't help but let them in. Skyloft never had the foods I was used to, and, in that respect, perhaps I was a picky eater after all. Bacon and eggs were replaced with pumpkin bread, eggplant, and the various fruits and vegetables that could be grown on the floating islands. It's weird how something like a strange new breakfast can make one feel so disconnected. It's been so long since I've smelled these smells, and my mouth waters in anticipation. For a moment I think of eating the spaghetti myself. Screw Ghirahim. But then I think of Essil, and realize I can't do that to her.

"Well?" I gesture to the plate. "Do I take it to him or what?"

"No!" Shii snaps. "You will not be allowed near my lord's quarters. I will deliver it—right after I put you back in your cell."

"Um, I thought the whole point was to save Essil—"

"He'll know you made it, human. He'll know."

I smirk toothily, a halfway to the wall of teeth I usually bare. "Good. Let him come for me."

Essil goes back under the table.

I am marched back up, up, up. I am returned to my scratchy wool blanket, left alone in the tower as if nothing different had occurred. I am made to wait, as I always have, watching the clouds drift over a dull sky.

Waiting, I imagine the ticking of a clock.

* * *

The realm is descending into dark, the light in the sky fades. It won't be long before it plunges into complete blackness.

I bite at my nails, glare at the wall. My leg bounces. Waiting. I've waited too long. That demon better not have laid the blame on Essil, or Shii.

Why couldn't I just take it to him? Do they think I'll find my way to his room later, slit his throat? Please. As if I could even escape this tower.

He isn't here, he should be here.

I get up, the blanket wrapped around me like a cape, and pace the room. My fingers clinch the wool at my neck, nails sinking into the fabric, wishing it were Ghirahim they were cutting into. Hah. Like my little human nails could pierce him. Do I really want a fight so bad?

Is it better than counting the seconds I cannot hear tick away?

I really was expecting him to come up here and throw the food in my face. It just seems odd that he hasn't.

Pacing soon becomes an insufficient outlet for frustration and I resort to running circles around the room, boots clicking like a horse's hooves against the stone. Round and round I go, round and round, round and—

The door slams open with such force it sounds as if a boom of thunder has gone off inside the tower. I freeze mid-stride at the window, turn wild eyes to the open doorway. There stands Ghirahim, glowing white in the fading light. He steps forward, rests a hand on the door jamb, fingers drumming irritably. His dark glare is potent, piercing straight into the center of me.

I take it he didn't like the s'ghetti.

I straighten out, stand tall as possible, and smile. It is a closed lip smile spanning my face, and it shows as a mockery of a sincere one. I wear it as I wait for the explosion, and it twitches, begging to be let loose as the manic snarl. The she-wolf in me is ready for conflict, ready to defend. But, deep down, a ewe baes in worry, calls for the shepherd to save her, to save everyone. It is that part of me that makes me think of Essil.

I open my mouth to inquire about her, make ready my threats and insults if she's been harmed. But Ghirahim opens his mouth first. And what he says wipes any thought of battle from my mind.

"You," he glares pointedly at me, "will make the… _spa-ghetti_ …again tomorrow. Is that understood?"

I blink in rapid succession. "Um, I…" I stumble for words. "O-Okay?"

His responding stare transfers discontent and I am quick to reform my answer to one more grounded.

"Yes, I mean. I will."

The demon lord nods curtly then, before storming out of the tower the same way in which he came. Loudly, with the slam of a door.

I sink down to the floor, mind trying to grasp at what just happened, when Shii silently enters. I stare uncomprehendingly at her. "He…he liked it?"

I swear there is a smile tugging at the corners of Shii's mouth. She nods. "Amazingly, yes. Very much so."

I gape, jaw attempting to unhinge into my lap. Shii throws back her head, and barks of rough laughter fill the room. I am too stunned to sputter in offense.

Her amusement diminishes from banging chortles to jumping hums and then to silence. Shii regards me solemnly, lowers her head. "Thank you, human. Thank you from me…and from Essil."

* * *

Shii is kinder to me after that. And I get to see Essil once more to make another batch, and things seem pretty good. But then…

I am always placed back in the tower. The lonely tower, with its chilly breezes. The wool can only shield from so much.

Minutes pass like hours, each subsequent one dragging longer than the last. There is no clock to help me keep track of time; no tick, tock, tick to count. The imaginary clock in my head warps, malfunctions. Then it's just me, and the voices in my head.

" _I…live life…in shackles. But I'm borderline…free_."

I start singing to pass the time, to drown out the strange whispers filling my mind. All kinds of songs drift through my clattering teeth, clattering because the rain had come and gone, leaving a frigid breeze to wander where the water did. All the songs I sing are from…from the Realm of Knowing, as I'll call it; a name to the world I once knew, the world that let me peer into this one and know it long before my rebirth. Old-time lullabies to modern culture, and everything in-between, pass through my chapped lips. The nostalgic syllables of the English language comfort me…and leave in me a wistful longing that will never find fulfillment.

" _Used to be blind…still can't see._ "

My singing isn't great. Honestly, I sound like a chipmunk—voice cracking, going silent when it hits the too-high range. When that happens, when words cannot be formed, I hum the rhythms.

I close my eyes, and I remember…

 _Where were You when my world ended?_

Modern songs run dry, and I fall back on the hymns I used to hear when I was first little, back in the Knowing Realm. We used to go to church as a family. My squeaky little girl voice bleated out those songs, trying to keep sync with my mother's soprano, my father's baritone. I'd sway to the rhythms with my little brother at my side, standing in the pews.

I wonder why we stopped going. I wonder when the church became nothing but a memory.

No. No, I don't wonder, says the part of me who refuses denial. Their jobs became more important, their money became more to them.

I remember a family from the church. They were a big unit, a husband and wife with five kids. They didn't have a lot, they drove a worn down van, donned hand-me-down clothes. But they were always smiling, always happy, thankful for what they had. I wish my family could have been more like them. I wish Mom and Dad would have been happy with what they had, instead of chasing what they didn't.

" _And now…let the weak say…I am strong…let the poor say…I am rich…because of what You've done…for us._ "

I close my eyes, and I can see it. The white walls, the steeple ceiling, the shining lights casting the wood floors with warm glow, the people standing amongst the pews, voices converging as one. It was warm in that place; the one place I did not feel afraid, the one place I did not need to wring my hands in worry, the one place I did not shiver and wish for better days.

" _Come Thou Fount of every blessing; tune my heart to sing Thy grace…_ "

I stopped praying a long time ago. But even so I was…I was a child of God, I remember. I wasn't a good one, but one I was. I could've been so much better. I've could've been kinder; instead I kept my head down, not looking up long enough to care about anyone around me. I was as aloof as the city perimeters, I was as cold as the peaks of the long and distant skyscrapers, rivaling the mountains in their height…

" _Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it…prone to leave the God I love…_ "

But even so I was… No, I am…I am a child of God—The True God. How can I be here? Did my soul get lost on the way? A thousand times I've wondered, is this my purgatory? Surely, He knows where I am. Surely, surely, there's been a mistake. And whenever the thought that He does not exist crosses my mind even a little, the crushing agony it births is more than I can bear. It takes my breath away. I cannot entertain the idea. It is far more plausible to me that I am ignored…or forgotten. Yet the doubt remains, a desolate hole threatening to swallow me down into nothingness.

I am forgotten then. There can be no other answer. Forgotten, ignored, left destitute.

Before I stopped praying, I prayed a thousand prayers…

 _Please save me. Save me, please._

My voice rises, a desperate cry mixed into the verses. " _Come, my Lord, no longer tarry—take my ransomed soul away! Send Thine angels now to carry, carry me to realms of endless days…_ "

The cold wind howls detriment, drowns my plea, and sends its icy breath across my skin. My teeth clatter with greater ferocity, and I huddle, crouched on the floor with my arms wrapped around me. Pressure builds in my eyes, and I slam my lids shut to swallow the mounting saline. My voice is lost in the process. Still I rasp, " _P-Prone to leave Thee… T-Take my ransomed soul away… Send Thy angels… Realms of endless days…_ "

"What's this? Here I thought I had a raptor and all this time I've had a songbird."

It falls silent. The wind ceases to a dull roar, a beast kept at bay by the diamond panes that now reside. I don't look or speak, instead keep under the hooded shelter of the wool. The demon usually bursts into the room. How long had he been listening?

Ghirahim walks further in the chamber, curiosity apparent in his expression. His usual haughty smile is absent, and he regards me with a slight tilt of his head, hands clasped behind his back in an inquisitive manner.

"What language was that, sky child? It is like none I've heard, and I thought I'd heard them all."

It must have sounded like weird chanting to him. The English language is slower, more drawn out with its syllables than Hylian Tongue, which is sharper and clipped in comparison.

I bow my head, hide my eyes. "What makes you think it isn't just gibberish?"

His soft laughter reverberates. "Do you think me daft? I know the difference, little bird. I've been listening for quite some time, and 'gibberish' does not sound so organized. You slipped into it in the Sky Temple, as well, did you not? What was it you said? _Ge-t a-way f-rom me_?"

I tense. He remembered that? Not only remembered but could actually reform the words. I look up at him in amazement, and it is my awe that brings forth an answer. What do I have to lose by telling him?

"It…it is a language from a world very far away from this one. It is…it's the most prominent language from the realm…" I search for my explanation carefully; I cannot tell him I was reborn. Who would believe that? I'm risking enough as is. "…the realm from which I receive my visions. The Knowing Realm."

"Teach it to me."

I do a double-take. "W-What?"

He strides to me, leans over me, hands on hips, and slowly enunciates, "Teach it to me."

"I—I'm not exactly the teaching type."

He flips his hair. "Oh, I'm sure you can manage, darling. I'm a quick study. All you have to do is speak it. Or sing it, if you prefer."

I shrink down into my blanket like a turtle. Sing? In front of him? "Um…"

"…Well?" He leans against the wall, head cocked slightly.

I blink, stupefied. Most Skyloftians looked at me funny whenever I spoke what they insistently called 'gibberish.' They'd tell me to stop being childish, and speak real words. None cared to pry as to what I might be saying, none seemed to care. Even Gaepora glossed over it, more focused on the Wing Ceremony than anything. And now, here, the first person to show interest in my native language, to want to hear more…is Ghirahim. A demon. The shock is so great I open and close my mouth a few times before any actual words come out.

" _T-Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above. Praise the mount; I'm fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love…_ "

I half sing it, half speak it. As time wears on and no harm comes to me, my stuttering fades. I pull the wool blanket around me tightly, and slowly transcend to sing, warbling half-spoken voice smoothing into lyrical rhythm with an almost steady tongue. I risk a glance at him, only to find him with his head bowed, arms folded at his chest, eyes closed. He seems…almost asleep, what with that smoothed, peaceful expression. But the subtle ticking of his index finger, slowly drumming to the rhythm of the song, indicates his wakefulness.

" _Mount of Thy redeeming…_ "

Suddenly the door swings open and my singing cuts off.

"What is it?!" Ghirahim snaps.

Shii stands in the doorway, gasping as if she had run all the way up here. "My lord, a message from the mountain…"

* * *

 **A/N: This story started out because I wanted to read something I couldn't find. The same notion applies to this chapter. I've read many reborn stories, all of which were either conveniently atheist or chose not to say. I wanted to read one where the trauma of breached faith was put into question. Therefore, yes, this story will have more mentions of God. If that offends you, please see the back button on your browser. Thank you.  
**

 **Spaghetti inspired by Papyrus.**

 **Songs referenced are Borderline, Give Thanks, and Come Thou Fount.  
**

 **And because some of you were wondering, Link does come in next chapter.**

 **Well, if you haven't run away yet, please let me know what you think. It's much appreciated.**


	8. upon the mount

**A/N: I wasn't really sure what to expect after I posted last chapter. I braced myself for backlash, I braced myself for silence. Instead I got an outpouring of support. Thank you so much** **PokemonTrainer4700, Moon ninja Luna, SarukoDark, Walavouchey, DiscountPineapple, Guest, Bluebadger, Guest, and Maybe for your reviews and encouragement. You are all amazing. I hope this chapter is to your liking.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

 _Are you seriously squealing again?_

I think it as I am pulled along the mountain trail. My hand is gripped tightly in Ghirahim's palm, being jerked forward at regular, paced intervals.

Because the dude is literally skipping.

I stare bewilderingly at our interlocking fingers, wondering how such a thing had even become a point of contention. Why had he wanted to take my hand, when he could have easily snatched my wrist, as he had done so many times before?

He held his hand out to me in the tower after Shii had delivered the news, looking at me expectantly.

I glanced between his face and his outstretched palm. "Um, what?"

"Take my hand, little bird."

I hesitated, scrunched low my brow. "…I'm not holding your hand."

"It's either that or I grab your arm. Your choice, darling. Just know that one option will be gentler than the other."

I took his hand. Not without great reluctance, rest assured.

The volcano looms high in the distance. Smoke rises from the precipice like plumes from a great dragon's mouth and rivers of lava branch down from the mountain's numerous wounds, cutting through the land, glowing bright and distorting the air with wafting waves of heat and embers. I skitter after the prancing demon, taking the slopes and rocky terrain of Eldin far better than the root-infested wood of Faron, surprisingly. Amazing what actual food can do for a body. Although the heat makes me gasp, and beads of sweat tickle as they run down my back. And… What…is that sound?

Oh geez. He's humming now. Skipping and humming.

What makes it more disturbing is the fact he's humming the tune of _Come Thou Fount_ , the English hymn I had recently sung to him. I'm shocked his demonic blood hasn't burst into holy flames.

It should. Why isn't it?

He glances back at me. "Smile, darling! It's a glorious day! The spirit maiden is ours."

My mouth remains a flat line. "Uh-huh."

"To think it's finally happened. Just as you said it would! Did I ever doubt you?" He pauses, pursing his lips. "Yes. Yes, I did. But I was wrong!" Suddenly he releases my hand and spins, grabbing me up and crushing me to his chest. "I've never been so happy to be wrong!"

I stutter incoherently as he swings me from side to side, as if smooshing my face into his rock wall of a chest wasn't enough.

As quick as he scooped me up, he drops me, continuing to prance up the mountain.

I glower after him with all the sulkiness I can muster. "…You really shouldn't celebrate before you cross the finish line."

"What was that?"

My immediate want-to response is to happily chirp, "Nothing!" but…

Something in my chest stirs, something prickly and smarting, like barbed wire digging lines through my heart.

I puff up. "I said, 'You really shouldn't celebrate before crossing the finish line.' You're not the only one after her, you know. What if someone else gets there first?"

He flips his hair. "And who, pray tell, will that be?"

I shrink down. "You know who," I grumble, because, really, he does. Or he will. But I question the wisdom of shedding light on Sheik—No, I mean Impa. Heh, wrong game.—and potentially causing Ghirahim to arrive before Hylia's guardian can rescue her.

But then I think of how sour his mood will be, how this happy, frolicking fruitcake will plummet to a nasty, snarling demon who can only be pacified by burning things…people…a certain green-clad person.

Again I have to tight-rope the middle ground.

"The boy in green," I supply, instead of revealing Impa. "The one you fought in— _choo!_ " I am cut off by the squeakiest sneeze ever as a hot breeze with volcanic ash drifts by. A squirrel sneezes more dignified; I sounded like a Kikwi. I shuffle awkwardly and try to make like it wasn't me, eyes darting to the sky for a bird I can blame it on.

Ghirahim throws a smile over his shoulder, eyes fliting up and down my frame. "That boy? Is he really still pursuing her? How stupid of him…" He sighs dramatically, like an amused but exasperated parent. "I warned him what would happen if we were to meet again."

A sharp frown cuts my face, and the need to defend Link rises. "Stupid or brave?"

His retort is dry. "Is there a difference, darling?"

"…Yes," I say so quietly he doesn't hear me. Yes, there is a difference. Not realizing the danger, or thinking oneself above said danger, is stupid. Knowing full well how dangerous the path is, yet pushing on regardless? That's courage.

Link knows his life is at risk. He also knows Zelda's is at risk too. And that's why he'll stop at nothing to save her. Nothing will keep him back. Not fear. Not mortal peril. Not even the deadliest demon on the surface. Not like me, who fears the fallout after Zelda gets swept away out of reach once again. Me, who walks the fence in hopes of avoiding the fire burning on both sides. We all wear chains, my pastor once said in one of the few sermons I actually remember. Either the chains of sin or the chains of righteousness. We make the choice. But to walk the middle road is to wear the chains of uncertainty.

 _To what are you bound now?_ whispers a voice in the back of my mind. I want to ignore it; I push it away. But I shiver anyway, feeling my chains now more than ever. The fear is uncertain, the hope is uncertain. Suddenly uncertainty in a world that, with all my knowledge, I thought couldn't provide anything other than absolute certainty.

If I were brave, I wouldn't have to wonder. If I had an inkling of courage, I wouldn't be a fence walker.

But I have no bravery, and courage is something I hide from on a daily basis.

"We really should hurry. He'll get there first."

"Nonsense! The Remlit's in the bag."

"Uh, Ma-'Master,'" I nearly choke on the title, and must attach sarcasm halfway to get it out. "No offense, but the Bokoblins aren't exactly the smartest bunch. I wouldn't trust them to keep hold of a stick let alone a person." I stumble over a rock just as another thought occurs to me. "…Are there even Remlit's down here?"

"Mmm, no. But I've read of them. That and I've found a couple dead ones."

I grimace, heart hitting with a sharp pang.

"…Does that upset you, little bird?"

I look up to see him watching me from over his shoulder, expression unreadable, eyes dark.

"W-What do you care?" I say lowly, ducking my head and averting my eyes. I curse myself for showing any kind of inclination; he'll surely use it against me later, provided he gets his hands on a Remlit or other small creature.

He says nothing in response.

"Are we gonna hurry or what? …Don't blame me if someone else gets there first."

* * *

The game taught me many things. Things about Link, things about Zelda, Impa, Groose, Demise… I thought it had taught me about Ghirahim too. I know he's crazy, I know he's sadistic, I know his emotions leap from one spectrum to the other at any given moment. I know. So why, why, _why_ am I always surprised by him?

Something in my warnings must have split hairs, must have pulled a trigger, because suddenly he isn't so happy.

"All right; you're right! Let's hurry, let's hurry! Come come, little bird! We haven't another moment to lose."

I am snapped to attention and rush onward. I was never considered a slow runner; the opposite actually. But that doesn't mean anything in the here and now, trying to keep up with a demon that can leap chasms in a single bound. The heat waves push against me like walls, slapping me with sweat and dizziness as my boots clip across rock and soil. The slopes bog me further, and my legs feel as lead and stone with each lift. Heavier and heavier, until I feel like I'm encased in concrete.

When I spot a stamina bulb growing in a shaded crevice, I dive for it, viciously biting into it as I run, never stopping. The green fruit's effects help me push on…for about another ten seconds.

I'd like to say I covered a lot of ground before sliding to my knees in defeat, but that would be a lie, and though I've lied to others I make an effort never to lie to myself. For all the good it does.

Ghirahim jumps over a hissing lava stream, crests the hill. I wish he'd keep going and leave me, but he doesn't. With not a drop of sweat on his brow, he turns and looks down at me, a most cool and unimpressed expression befitting his face.

"Just—just go! I'll…get there eventually." I gasp rapidly, gripping my knees, and lowering my head, the heat not the only thing coloring my face. I thought I was better than this, I thought I was stronger. When playing the game…heh. When playing the game I was sitting on the couch, not doing the actual running. That was Link. I remember being so irritated at how quickly his stamina depleted. And here I am. If stamina gauges were an actual thing, mine would be half of the hero's.

Dust poofs in front of me as Ghirahim's feet touch ground. "Get up."

I glare. "Don't…waste time with me. Go—"

"Get. Up." His tone does not offer tolerance.

I obey, rising shakily, and am instantly slung over his shoulder. The sudden contact both tenses and knocks the breath out of me as my stomach comes down on him. And then the ground is rushing, rushing like water beneath me, the air swirling by, cooling. I am carried up the mountain, through boiling caverns, and up rocky cliffs. My stomach churns and my throat tightens whenever he jumps so high, and my eyes go wide and my clammy palms grip his cloak whenever we pass over bubbling orange rivers, but I utter not a peep. His mood is all over the place; I can feel it, like electric currents are radiating of him, zipping wildly.

Then, a thought occurs to me. "Why don't you just teleport?"

"I am told they have her; I am not told where. I'm checking the outpost. It's not far."

The fact that the ground we covered felt like miles to me, but was actually not, strikes me and once again I'm scorned. I might as well be a sack of potatoes over his shoulder right now. I blame the numerous inclines, I blame the heat; anything to take this useless blaming pressure off my chest. I'm so bothered by it I don't jerk or complain, not even when I shift dangerously during another jump. The ground gets so small; we go high up. His hand quickly slides from behind my knees to grip my thigh, prevents me from slipping. I bite my tongue at the contact. He'd probably drop me if I whined, anyway, what with his temper being as it is.

 _Don't blame me, don't blame me…_

A skip and a hop later ( _a leap and a deadly drop that nearly makes me vomit my heart out later_ ) and we're at the outpost.

Which is right in front of the temple, apparently.

As soon as Ghirahim plops me to my feet, nausea and fear is forgotten. I spin around to take in the sight of the double red doors, adorned with twin dragons on either side, and the flames melded in gold above them, the giant round ruby situated between, the red brick, the green stone trimmings, the gold casings, the ancient build and tiling, all crumbling and in disrepair but still breath-taking in the way it goes up, up, up, right in the face of the mountain, and…

Where did Ghirahim go?

I whirl around and he's not there. Look left, look right, my eyes scanning the rock and—there he is. Talking to a trembling little Bokoblin. There are other Bokoblins, but they've all backed away, some quivering up against the rocks, some having even hidden in their makeshift camp, their beady eyes peering out from the cracks of the crude huts, and left their comrade to do the reporting.

I watch warily. Unwittingly I put myself in their shoes, and then have to subsequently brush off the pain pricking in my chest. Poor little fugly idiots…but I don't dare to intervene. Ghirahim is about as likely to explode into rage as he is to happiness, and he just might take someone's head in the ensuing fit.

After observing the temple a bit longer, and having had my fill of marveling at its height and ancient presence, I dawdle off to the leftward path. From the temple yard's stone tiling, and all the broken up patches and holes making it look like bombs have rained down, to the faded dirt trail. I eye the blooming bomb flowers with both excitement and trepidation, knowing they could go off at the slightest irritation. Kinda like the demon.

Though it looks like I wander aimlessly, I very deliberately loiter over a soft patch of dirt, digging into it with my heel. Part of the key is right under my feet. Trudging deep with my boot I draw a smiley face over the patch. Hopefully Link will see it.

 _And there should be a Goddess Cube behind those rocks…and another piece of the key down that hill…_

If I'm the cause of the key being broken up, the least I can do is scout the shards out, mark them for Link. Actually, if I could dig up most of them and put them together, then bury them in a convenient spot, it would really help him out. Maybe I could, if I could just do so under Ghirahim's nose…

I sneak back over to the rocks, peer out into the temple grounds and…

"Uh…" I lean further, gripping to the rock wall and hanging out on my arm. "Where'd Ghirahim go?"

Dark, tiny eyes all turn to regard me, all going wide in their sockets.

"What?" My question is simple enough, but they don't answer me. It is then I recall Shii's words. The language barrier. Of course. "Ghi-ra-him," I enunciate, waving my hand in a where-art-thou motion.

Little clawed hands all point to the temple.

"He just LEFT me?!" I spout, but then quickly rein in, push away the arbitrary indignation. "Um, well…he was in a hurry, I guess. Ahem. Um…don't mind me. I'll just…wait over here."

I scurry out from their sights, back behind the rocks, splay up against them. He…left me. He actually left me. That's…that's awesome! I can get the key parts now. I can—

Wait. Was…was he supposed to rush ahead just now?

Where is Impa?!

I dash out to the edge of the temple court, nearly throwing myself over the edge and down the steep incline in my haste. Ghirahim leapt up a completely different way than what one would take in-game, so I wasn't able to see any defining landmarks. Was that one bridge already made passable by Impa? Has she gotten through yet?

Dread wells up and churns like a storm cloud, and I sink into it, struggle to keep my head above it to breathe. Now you've done it, I tell myself. You frickin' idiot! You stupid cowardly wretch! You couldn't stall him? You couldn't take the beating? Zelda's dead now, good job.

There is a dreadful moment in which my mind goes completely blank, quiet but for the panicked pounding of my heart.

The key. The key! My mind suddenly screams it. You have to get the key and stop him yourself! Hurry!

 _Hurry, hurry, hurry,_ goes each beat of my fibrillating heart as I run, run, run.

I knee dive over the first dirt patch, claw at it with my bare hands, splashing dirt into the air like some kind of dog. Panicked gasps fill my ears and I worry the Bokoblins will try to stop me, but then I distantly realize the gasps are my own. My panic. My blood beating a drum inside my head.

Dirt crumbles and trickles back into the pit, only to be ripped out, flung away, until gold pierces the brown monochrome. I yank it up, shove it in a pocket, and dart off to the next one. I dive down an incline, roll, roll, tumble in a foolish act of impatience, as I could've broken my neck throwing myself down like that, but I don't stop to think of it. And in my hurry I forgot to roll down a bomb flower ahead of me, and now I must dig under the crude little wood tower the Bokoblins built over it. My nails split and bleed when they hit stone scattered throughout the dirt, but I cannot stop.

Do not stop.

Second piece obtained— _hurry!_

Back up the hill, on all fours like some sort of grudge monster, my head goes dizzy and I start seeing white again.

 _White, white, white._

 _That white air is…cooling._

At the top I tear through to the Bokoblin camp. They croak and screech at my panicked arrival, some go ramrod straight and freeze, others run over and bar my way. I run back and forth along them like a corralled horse, my wheezing gasps each coming out like a little scream.

"Get out—get out of my way! _Get out!_ "

They grumble and croak amongst each other. One raises a club and waves it threateningly, whereas another pulls at its shoulder and squawks something I cannot understand in a questioning tone.

I don't have time for this.

I run back, back, until I am far enough away for an adequate charge. When I do, the wind whirls by.

" _Get the fuck outta my way bitch!_ " is the only warning they get before I bulldoze through like a bowling ball. They hit the ground like pins and I topple over them, only to roll back into a run. I don't take time to apologize, though a part of me winces, and I'm racing to the next part of the key. A bomb flower makes quick work of another tower, and after it falls over a chasm I use it as a bridge.

Nothing stops me…until I get to another chasm.

I gawk down into the black abyss, wondering how the heck I forgot about it. There is an ancient stone bridge, but it lies withdrawn, inactivated, and can only be extended from the other side.

How did Link get through this? How did _I_ get through it as Link?

Squinting for a solution, my hand shakes as it grabs at my eyes for the glasses that aren't there anymore, and haven't been for the last two decades of this life. I end up holding my face instead, anything to quell quivering fingers.

There are still trees in this place, and vines leech up sheer cliffs. Am I supposed to jump for that? No, no, that's gotta be more than ten feet, I couldn't possibly make that jump… Oh. Right. I'm supposed to sidle over that little ledge and climb my way to the other side.

Said ledge is no wider than my foot.

I gape at it.

I'm gonna die. I gonna fall down and die, and then what?

I'm gonna die if Demise is revived—everyone is! The demon king, that black scaled, ominous beast. He'll wipe all those who oppose him from the face of the earth. Everyone…

But I'm already dead. That's right. I've already died. But, them? They're…

 _Just data on a screen… What do you care? Just data._

I shudder and hunch inward, squeezing my eyes shut. Those were my thoughts. Those were my excuses for not caring, for keeping my heart far away. Just data. Don't get involved with them; they're not real, it's not real. Maybe, but…but suddenly I remember things I tried to be blind to, things I didn't want to see. From that data, I remember…

Gaepora's eyes gazed at me with the longing worry of a father who didn't know how to help his child. His seeking eyes and questions sought answers to a puzzle he couldn't begin to comprehend. But he tried. He never stopped trying, even after all the times I shut him out.

Zelda chased me down, chastised me for being lazy…but I could see the glimmer of worry in her blue eyes, could see the hint of sadness at the corners of her mouth. She pushed me because she wanted me to do better. It hurt her to see me wallow as much as it hurt me to do so.

Link wasn't just carrying out orders when he helped me. He didn't have to stay with me on the edge. No one told him to do that. No one commanded him to smile at me as we passed in the halls between classes either. He didn't have to help me understand difficult studies, or show me how to hold a sword for the very first time. I can still see my spindly fingers wrapping awkwardly around the hilt of the worn and dull practice sword, can still see the sleepy but encouraging smile he gave me after I fumbled and dropped it.

Karane went out of her way more than once to write a second copy of her notes just so I could pass a class by the skin of my teeth. She pushed those papers under my always locked door, never asked for a thank you, never seemed to expect one. She never got one either…

Pipit goes without saying. He tried to keep me safe that night, he told me it was dangerous—don't go out. He tried to save me from my own foolishness. If only I had listened.

Ori…Oriel. No, it was Orielle. I was too careless to even remember her name, yet she tried to look out for not only me, but for Turk. She was concerned for my bird, the very creature I depended on for my life, and I…I just brushed her off like she was nothing.

Luv, the woman who made the potions, was harsh with me and the quickest to anger when I spoke my native tongue. Yet she always made sure I ate, always badgered me into staying healthy. She and Piper, the woman who ran the restaurant and made the best soups, teamed up to encourage me when I had lost so much weight after not eating for a whole week. Together they kept me from another early grave.

I remember sitting in a meadow near the edge of Skyloft, grass willowing around me, swaying with the wind in a slow waltz to an unheard song of melancholy. It was a song I got lost in often. My wild hair danced with it, and I'd close my eyes, thinking if I kept them closed long enough I'd be able to float away on a breeze, wake up in my home world. She came out of nowhere. That little girl, Kukiel, pushed little white flowers into my hands. "Don't cry," she said, stealing a hug. And then she ran off to play, bouncing from one thing to the next as children do. I hadn't known I was crying. Hadn't felt the wetness on my face until I looked down at those little flowers in disbelief.

In the hot air of the volcanic mountain, I clench my fists and remember the feel of those little white flowers. They knew something was wrong with me. They couldn't figure it out. But they tried. In their own ways, they all _tried_.

 _Just data on a screen, you said._

 _No, no…more than that._

I look down into the chasm, something coming up against my fear, something strong as steel and as unrelenting. I have to push on. I have to.

Shaking like a leaf in a whirlwind and with tears pricking at my eyes, I take on the ledge, pressing my belly flat against the sheer mountain wall, facing away from the death-drop so as not to give any opportunity to glance down. Rocks crack and pebbles pop as they slither and crash down, and each sound makes my heart leap to my throat as if it's trying to jump up the cliff face itself, and leave me to deal with gravity alone. I'm smooshed to the mountain like it's my lover or something. Oh, and it's not the first time I've been pressed to a rock hard surface. Stupid demon. This is all his fault.

My blood roars to a different tune as it goes, _He left me!_ He freaking _left_ me! That _dick_! I _hate_ him!

I whimper as a breeze dolls by, lifting my hair, tickling my skin, teasing me to the edge.

I want to close my eyes; I want to magically be on the other side, safe.

Safe, safe, safe. The word repeats until it is true. But even then, it really isn't. Even when I've somehow made it to the other side, there is still so much more to go through.

And to think I once scoffed at Link from the safety of the couch.

* * *

The trees here are a wonder. How do they grow in such a hot environment? Their bark is rougher than any I've ever felt, their branches so much harder to break. But they make really good shovels, I've found, when I finally manage to wrest one away.

Their red leaves twirl by. They remind me of the magnolias in the park. Magma magnolias. That's what I'll call them. Ha ha… Hah…

…Has my brain really regressed to such blithe ramblings?

Well, I guess that's what happens when one pushes themselves to exhaustion, climbing terrifying heights, and running through flame-bursting caverns.

The ends of my hair are singed, blotches of my skin are burned, and patches of clothes are black from where they combusted. All of that just to get through two seconds of tunnel. And then, immediately after, while I'm still on fire, do I fall and roll down a steep hill. At least it was mostly sand. And, hey: Stop, drop, and roll really works.

Upon realization that I don't have sailcloth, I am forced to find different ways to the last key shards. I've always been a pretty good climber, but this…

My scream fills the sky as I fall, over and over again. I fall into sand, as I'm not foolish enough to try climbs over any dead-falls, but even so the drops are enough to knock the breathe out of me, paralyze me until shock wears off and I'm able to move again.

After all that, after every piece of the key is on my person, I have to go around and climb all the way back up to the temple.

And when I finally pull myself up that last ledge…

Green. Blurry green fills my vision along with something hot and stinging.

He stands there, in front of those double doors, talking to his blue floating sword spirit, Fi.

"H-Hey," I call, voice warbling wetly. "Please t-tell me…please tell me that woman in the black cape came ahead of you."

"Kya!" I hear him gasp, hear the chiming of Fi jumping back into the sword, and I hear as his boots thud rapidly in approach. I hear. Because everything's too blurry to see.

"How long?" I persist. "How long ago did you see the woman in black?"

My vision clears as something rolls down my cheek, and I see the confusion apparent on his face.

"The person in black!" My tone rises, not angry, but desperate. "The one who helped you get over the bridge! How long ago was that?!"

"Um…a while ago, I suppose. Why?"

Light spills from the Goddess Sword, and out pops Fi. "Master, if I may be of assistance. I calculate the aide we received to have occurred approximately two hours and twenty-two minutes ago."

"Kya?" Link's voice. It sounds distorted, far away. "Kya, are you okay?"

Two hours. I haven't been here that long, have I? No, no, it hasn't even been an hour. She made it, she must have made it. She had to have found a way into the temple. She has her magic, she has her agility; surely, surely she made it.

 _She made it,_ whispers a voice I barely hear. _She made it._

I sink to my knees, with every conscious part of my brain asserting the relived sobbing as coming from the mountain, the wind, the sky. From anything, from anywhere…except me.

* * *

 **A/N: Please forgive me for the pacing. I've read and kept in mind all the advice you've given me, and am trying to implement it smoothly. A little bit of character development, more to come. And, yes there is foreshadowing in here. I won't say to what though.  
**

 **That said, I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. Please let me know what you think.**

 **P.S. Is Breath of the Wild not amazing? Not only is it nice to look at, it plays well too. I'll definitely be using it for inspiration to describe the Hylian surface world. I love Skyward Sword, but it was far too linear in that regard.**

 **P.S 2 Can you tell I drafted Kya's character while listening to Tourettes Guy videos? ^_^'**


	9. confliction

**A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, Walavouchey, Othaeryn, DiscountPineapple, Mokki Takashi, Bluebadger, CrashingUpward, SarukoDark, Alter Ego Bob, and LyricalLazuli for your reviews on the last chapter(s). Your support and advice means so much.  
**

 **And a special thank you to Mokki Takashi for drawing an amazing fanart of Kya! I can't get the link to work. T_T It just screams at me and tries to cut me. But if you go to my profile, you'll find my deviantart link there. Mokki's picture is in my favorites. ^_^  
**

 **As for Kya's name, it wasn't the first I came up with for the character. But after looking up names, the meaning of 'Kya' solidified the choice. It is African in origin, and since the Zelda series has many unique names from many different cultures, I figured it would be okay. According to different sources, it can be pronounced Kai-ah or Ki-ah. I prefer the former, but please use whichever you prefer.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

"Here's the freakin' key. Take it, take it!"

Link scrambles for the object as I shove it to his chest. With contraption in hand, his expression hardens into one of resolve and he turns to put the key into its rightful place. It slides in, clicks, and gears spin. There is a trembling, and the doors part.

"Go!" I wheeze, unable to stand.

He doesn't. The idiot turns back and crouches before me, holds out a bottle of red potion.

I push it away. "No. I won't take that from you. You'll need it."

"I'm not going anywhere until you drink it." His blue eyes are earnest and unrelenting, yet shine with a compassion that pours out like a cooling balm against the hot wind hissing around us.

My face crumbles at the undeserved kindness, and my head bows to hide it. "No…"

The red bottle is stubbornly pushed into my line of sight.

"No! Just—just go! Zelda needs you! I'll…I'll catch up." Funny how I said something similar to Ghirahim earlier. I shouldn't have. I should have dragged my feet, I should have whined and moaned and acted like we had all the time in the world. But no, my stupid survival instinct had to act up again, had to remind me who was going to take the beating for any delay after all was said and done.

Link's argument is one of silence. He does not move, not himself or the potion, and eventually I have to concede.

It is a cold fire down my throat, in the pit of my stomach. When I'm done I jab the bottle out, hit him in the gut with it, hoping it will be distracting enough so he doesn't notice I left it quarter full. I'm not taking it all, dangit.

I think he notices. Of course he does. The liquid swishes as he tilts the bottle, and I can practically feel him gauging the amount, but he says nothing and puts it away.

Then footsteps, wandering away, the noise of crunching dirt and click of stone fading. I sit there, head down, hair hanging a curtain around my face, waiting, feeling the potion's effect wave through me. Burned skin tingles as it melds back together, cuts crawl as they rejoin, and bruises throb less and less like the quieting of a drum.

In the silence I squeeze my eyes shut. I try not to think of how quiet the Bokoblin camp is, or how it got that way. Because I already know. And feeling sorry for them won't bring them back. Why would I want that anyway? They're the enemy. The enemy.

The sound of Link's boots gives me a start. I had not expected him back.

"What are you doing?" I rasp. "Go."

He takes my hand, turns it palm up, and fills it with red, fleshy petals. I stare bewilderingly, only distantly realizing they are petals from the heart flowers and that, yes, there are a few that grow here on the mountain.

"If you're not going to drink, then eat." Link nods to the petals. "I'll go find some more for—"

My fingers hook into his tunic before he gets away. "No—I will. You need to get going. Seriously."

"I can't leave you like this…" He sounds uncertain, and I look up to see it in his expression.

"Link," I say, stressing my next words, "Ghirahim is already in the temple."

It has the effect I knew it would. His breath comes in sharply through his nose, and his eyes harden to steel. His hands clench to fists.

"Wait here. Hide. I'll be back for you."

I can do nothing but nod weakly, downcast, because I…

Link's footfalls recede, for real this time, and tears prick again at my eyes, refreshing the streaks that have yet to dry. I promised. I promised myself I wouldn't be weak the second time around. I promised I would be of help. And I suppose I was—with the key, but…

The petals are shoved into my mouth, chewed viciously. My fingers curl to fists in the dirt, the grit grinding in my grip.

I will not be weak. I will not be incapacitated. Not again, said I.

 _Get up, get up, getup!_ snarls the she-wolf. Get up, baes the ewe. Both aspects of me crow in tandem, towards the same goal, in a rare moment of unity.

I surge to my feet, dive back into rush-mode. I rip petals off the flowers, shovel as many as I can into my mouth, scrub what's left into shreds on my face, my arms, healing the burns there, letting the secretions linger for lasting effects.

And then I'm running into the temple.

The heat blasts into me like a giant oven that just had its door opened, stinging against the still-tingling burns, threatening my entire body with black-out exhaustion. I push against it, the rage spitting through me rivaling its intensity.

"Link!" I call into the inferno. "Link! I'm coming with you!"

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" I say as I leap up onto the smooth round surface of the rock ball. "It'll be fine. I know what I'm doing!"

Link eyes the lava the precariously lolling boulder rests in, then turns that discerning eye on me. "And we're both going to fit up there?"

"Sure!" I chirp. "We just gotta be super coordinated with each other. Come on up!"

His disbelief is palpable. "Maybe it would be better if you wait here and I—"

"No, no, my way's totally better." I nod vigorously, the potion and heart flower effects having refilled my energy, and maybe fritzed my brain a little in the process. But who's paying attention to that? Pssh, not me.

"Kya, seriously?"

"Hop on up; I know exactly where to go—screw the map! We don't need the map!" My words jumble together, and a small spark in my brain says maybe this isn't your best idea, and reminds me of the spectacle I made of myself after coming down the temple stairs. And, no, I did not fall down them this time.

Only after entering the temple did I realize no weapon protected me, and as a fiery bat came swooping down, I improvised.

"AH! POCKET SAND!" I screamed as I raked up dirt and flung it into the creature's eyes. Its squeals lingered behind as I ran away shouting for Link. I caught up to him, blurting about the statue he needed to blow up in order to secure a way to traverse the lava pool. But he was already readying his slingshot, aiming at the bomb flowers that grew in the fissures of the fallen down statue. So he really didn't need me for that part, but, but… He'll definitely need me for the rest of the temple! I know exactly what to do, where to go. Excitement welled up and instilled a giddiness that has yet to dissolve.

I am going to be _so_ much help.

With a shrug and a sigh, Link finally relents and jumps onto the boulder. I motion for him to situate himself behind me, tell him of the movements we'll have to coordinate to get this hunk of stone rolling.

Putting it into effect, I realize I really didn't think this through.

"Back, back, back!" I squawk. "No, move back!"

"I am! Your leg keeps bumping mine!"

"YOU'RE the one bumping ME!"

"Kya, this isn't working!"

"IT IS WORKING! Just move with me, dammit!"

There is a short span of trial and error, leading to me declaring the positions of the clock as directions for our movements. Twelve o'clock for directly in front of us, six o'clock for behind, nine o'clock to the left, three o'clock to the right, and so on. It works rather well, except for once or twice when the ball spins too fast, and Link grunts alarm before yanking me back by the shoulders, causing me to fall into him, and he must lean forward to keep us from pitching backward.

Uh, yeah…this might've been easier if it was just him on this rock, but…

Oh, look! That's where he'll get the bomb bag!

"Three o'clock—run it over!"

The bloated frog-like Spume didn't get far before it was crushed under our rolling sphere. I briefly wonder, in the back of my mind, how on earth those things live in the lava. In fact, how are we able to be so close to the stuff without bursting into flames? Long ago I accepted that there are differences in this world, differences like magic that causes islands to indefinitely float in the sky for one, but beyond that I always thought the laws of nature and physics would have to be obeyed.

We're so high up in the atmosphere, I used to wonder as I stared off the edge of Skyloft, how is there enough oxygen for us to breathe? This realm is simply different, I concluded after weariness stopped my mind from trying to wrap itself around a scientific explanation. More oxygen, thicker atmosphere—I don't know. I don't know and I have no one to tell me. How would they look at me if I asked these questions? So I didn't.

As Link and I jump off a rolling rock that technically should be too hot to touch after wading in molten rock, and thump onto solid ground, I come to the same forgone conclusion. It's different. It's not like the magma from the Knowing Realm, which would have ignited us as soon as we stepped into the temple. Lava that would have flashpoint killed any Spume trying to 'live' in it.

The upper half of a Mogma, those strange mole-like people, sticks up from the ground. Ledd is his name, I think. I spare only a cursory glance at his ruffled tawny fur and thick black claws, and leave Link to deal with the talking. The Mogma tells Link of his plight, but the only words I pick up are 'bomb' and 'bag' to know we're on the right track.

Crawling through a gap under a crudely built metal chain-link fence, I freeze where I lay in the dirt. A Bokoblin dozes on the other side. The little red creature sways on its feet, snorts. I creep forward with eyes trained on it as if I am a cat sneaking up on prey, before flicking gaze to the nearest bomb flower. Fingers itch out, claw at the explosive flower bud until it is uprooted. I stiffen as the fuse hisses to life and am quick to pinch it dead. My stare darts back to the Bokoblin, who continues to snort softly.

One, two, three, I count in my head the bomb flowers. Yes, this should do it. I line them up and then one by one I take them out under the gap, wriggling gently through the space.

"Do me a favor and get my bomb bag, will you? Buddy?" Ledd waves a hand at Link's face, but the hero is suddenly far too focused on what I'm doing behind the Mogma. Three bomb flowers are daintily placed into various crevices of the rock that blocks our way. I give one bud a firm tap, wait for its hiss, and trudge back over to Link's side.

I look at him, mouth drawn in a thin line. "Boom."

The ear-shattering sound follows not a second later, scattering debris, and despite my one-word nonchalance I flinch at the assault of dust and pellets. The Bokoblin wakes up with a startled warble, its body and cleaver clattering to the floor, and Ledd disappears beneath the ground.

I think Link is the only one who stood unmoved.

"Wait," I say as the hero starts to move forward.

He looks back at me expectantly, but I struggle to articulate my thoughts.

"Uh, hey, listen, I—doh!" I smack myself in the face. 'Hey, listen!' is not how I wanted to start that. Ugh… "Listen—I mean, dammit! Look," I try again, "there's two Lizalfos up ahead. They're the ones who found the bomb bag, but…um…"

I tiptoe ahead, stepping around Link as if to catch the drop on him. He watches me with sudden suspicion.

"Um, is there any chance you'll wait here? I want to see if I can…"

But those blue eyes are already hardening.

"No."

"B-But—!"

He walks ahead, deaf to anything else I have to say.

* * *

I wanted to try stealing it without their notice. Or, if that failed, I wanted to bargain for it with reason. Unfortunately as Link and I crossed the threshold of molten rock, our boots clapping on the stone platform, the Lizalfos snapped to attention, rolling their arms in preparation for a fight. I saw them before that moment, facing each other, gesturing humanly, laughing, as they spoke, and images of Shii and Essil came to mind.

Even now, as they bounce on their toes and stare us down I can't help comparing them, especially in regards to Shii. Green scales, narrowed eyes, and sneer wrinkling snouts. Suddenly I don't want to fight, suddenly I…

"Go back, Kya. You don't have a weapon."

Link. He's noticed my hesitance, the stuttering of my legs as they step forwards and backwards, like a wobbly colt that can't decide which way to run.

"No, I…" I step forward. "Let me try something first. Please."

Confusion knits his brow, and he pauses. Though his hand does not retract from his sword's hilt. He is at the ready, and I realize if I'm going to do something I must do it now.

Sharp teeth frame angry, taunting tongues. My thoughts stumble, much so when one Lizalfos jumps towards me and jerks out an armored covered fist threateningly.

The warning chink of Link's metal shield and sword sounds from behind me.

"U-Uh, hey. Nice bomb bag you got there." I point to said bag, hanging from the holster of the leftmost Lizalfos. "Mind if we—? Oh, _ho shit_!" I roll out of the way of a swinging fist, leap back up to my feet. "Hey! Stop it! I just wanted to talk, you dick! I'm warning you, I—I—!"

I am charged, and then all hell breaks loose as Link explodes into action. He rams the Lizalfos nearest to me with his shield, knocking it sideways, and it fights to keep balance. The other one continues its advance on me.

Loud clanging fills the blazing hot room. Statues of old watch in frozen aghast as spiked tails hammer metal shields and white blade chips armored arms. My game is less physical than Link's. I skitter backwards, jump left and leap right in a deadly volley of tag. Or 'Don't be tagged' rather. I dodge, since dodging is the only thing I can do. Words spew from my mouth, while gestures and near-forgotten signs of a silent language flail with my hands, but all attempts to verbalize dissonance and pacify my enemy go unhindered. Darn it, I find myself thinking. What do I have to say—what do I have to do? I don't want to kill these two— _I don't want them to be killed!_ I should say since I won't be doing the killing. Shii and Essil, and these two…

They're not 'its' anymore, not faceless enemies I can't care to think about. Suddenly they're people, suddenly I have to save them.

How do I tell these Lizalfos to stand down?

"Ghirahim!" I shout suddenly, causing Link to flinch from his enemy and cast out a wary eye. "I'm Ghirahim's! I'm his servant! Stop! Stop it now!"

My command borders on a scream as I twist away from a swiping fist, the wind of it hitting my face. The Lizalfos that chases me blinks her shrewd eyes at the familiar name, but shows no understanding beyond it. It is then I remember…

The language. They don't understand what I'm saying.

" _Shaa haaf ssil, shaa haaf ssil_!" I screech in panic as I tumble over my feet, my rump hitting the hard floor. I raise my hand as if to catch the metal layered knuckles that jab toward my face.

The Lizalfos' fist stops mid-strike, and she watches me with sudden interest, sudden confusion.

She is waiting…

" _Shaa haaf ssil_ ," I say weakly, my mind desperately trying and failing to unearth more words she will understand…but those were the only ones Shii ever said to me.

The moment passes, and her yellow eyes harden once more.

I curl in on myself as she leaps for the final blow, only to hear a string of resounding shrieks. I do not open my eyes, or uncurl. I keep my forehead to the slightly cooler floor, focusing on squeezing down the pressure that builds behind my eyelids.

A hand grasps my shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" I snap, but my voice warbles in its call. I failed.

The rustle of fabric and the quiet whisper of chainmail precede the hush of his sword returning to its sheath. He's in front of me, waiting, probably wondering what the heck my problem is. "Kya…?" But there is only worry in that voice, and it doesn't help fight off the welling in my eyes.

I twist into a standing position in a single motion and stride for the door without looking up, without looking back. I don't want to see them lying there.

"Are you coming?" I call back when I hear no footsteps succeeding mine.

"In a minute."

I stop in my tracks. Understanding clicks and my shoulders shake as I give a single curt nod. I push onward, trying not to think of it, fighting down the lump forming in my throat, and let the door fall shut as he cuts off their tails.

* * *

I already have bomb flowers stacked up by the time Link comes through; I'm already shuffling on my knees towards him with an armful as he speaks to Ledd.

"You can have it. But knowing me that bag's probably empty, but if you harvest some bomb flowers you can…uh… Yeah, like that."

Ledd trails off as he sees me yank open the bag tied on Link's waist. The hero grunts and stumbles as I shove in multiple explosive buds. "You're going to need them," I say gruffly, without looking at him, before trudging back to the stone ball. I jump up and wait with back turned and head down.

His boots tap on the crumbing azure stone that probably hailed a once grand walkway. "Are…you sure you're okay?" he asks uncertainly, like he isn't sure what the ailment is.

I pick my head up and square my shoulders. "It's hard to tell from here, but there's actually a large fissure in that far wall over there." I point. "A couple bombs should do it. That's where we need to go next."

I'm going to have to get over it, I realize. There are more enemies where that came from and if I stop to feel sorry for every one of them we'll never get where we're going.

I refused to be held responsible for Ghirahim's delay, and I won't be the cause for Link's lateness either.

"Let's go," I urge when he doesn't hop up. I even attempt a smile. "We don't want to be late."

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you liked the chapter. I'd love to know your thoughts!  
**

 **I hope the dialogue is okay...**

 **I've only gotten to one boss in BOTW. Lack of time to play coupled with my tendency to stop every five seconds and catch grasshoppers has...significantly slowed me. ^_^' Ha, ha... *sigh*  
**


	10. into the dragon's lair

**A/N: Thank you Alter Ego Bob, Moon ninja Luna, Mokki Takashi, Lunar Loon, Walavouchey, Guest, PokemonTrainer4700, Ramori, Bluebadger, and Guest for your advice, encouragement, and reviews. I hope you find this chapter satisfactory.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

"It's better than nothing," Link concedes as I brandish a blade dropped by one of the Bokoblins. It is nothing special; merely a cleaver with chips and dirty scruffs in what should be smooth and sharp, shiny and silver.

I turn the blade, scrutinizing it with shrewd eyes. Far from perfect, but at least it will cut. "Yes, it'll do. Now quit worrying about me and worry about Zelda."

The mention of the spirit maiden narrows his attention, focuses it on the one goal he strives for above all others, and on we go. I do not cringe at the deaths he brings about anymore. Not outwardly at least. Though my heart pricks with every fell swoop of his blade, my face remains impassive, a grim but resolute expression set in stone. My eyes cloud over. I try to look past the deaths, try to go back to that mentality when all of this was just a game and I was nothing more than a passive player sitting on a couch. Faceless enemies in my way. They're on the wrong side. They're against me. I'm the hero and they're the monsters. I must defeat them if I am to move forward. I must if I am to save Zelda, and the world. I am justified.

But they did not bleed when it was just a game. They did not cry out or contort in twisted pain. They did not writhe on the ground before the finishing blow was dealt.

I am unable to return to the gamer mind frame, and so I resort to begging the she-wolf in me to stand guard over the ewe, to unleash its viciousness, its gleeful acceptance of violence. But I am quick to learn my frenzy does not work that way.

 _Why?_ I ask, teeth and fists clenched. The she-wolf only stares back with cold indifference.

Only when it is her own life in jeopardy does the wolf show her teeth in manic delight, only when it is her own survival on the line does she bask in the struggle. She fights for her own blood, not for others'. The wolf guards the ewe, keeps her mournful baes quiet so I may wear my mask of indifference, but retains her teeth.

I can be thankful for my mask at least. I do not want to slow Link down—I _will not_. He is doing what he has to do, with no other choice. The enemy will not back down, though heaven knows I would make them step aside if I could. They will not listen; I do not speak their tongue. Screaming at them in Hylian is about as effective as screaming in English: they don't get it. It's nothing but incoherent vowels and noises, much like their words are to Link and me.

I force myself to stare straight ahead as he cuts through another one, and will my stomach to stop its churning. Link doesn't bat an eye. The spraying blood doesn't bother him, I suppose. Or maybe it does, and he steels himself so well not a sign of it shows through. He's far stronger than me if that's the case. Here I am. Though with a weapon in my hand, it hangs limp and useless at my side. Did I not say I was going to be of help? Did I not promise we would tear through the surface world? And I can't bear to make a single cut. Hah.

I try to spite myself. I rush forward at a Bokoblin Link has yet to see, make to slash at it across the throat for a quick death. But my heart betrays me at the last second, and I turn the blade, hitting the creature with the flat edge instead of the sharp. It makes a gurgled 'Hrk!' and I ram my shoulder into it, knocking it over before coming down on its head with the cleaver's flat side. I stand and stare at its limp form, shaking, because for a second I think it is dead. But then I catch sight of its shrunken chest rising and falling.

I am quick to skitter back to Link, feeling foolish. His stare does not judge me, yet I feel that it does anyway. Those blue eyes, resolute as steel, take their search from my face to my hands, and it is then I realize they are still shaking. I clamp them to my sides, gripping the fabric of my pants with my free hand and the handle of the cleaver with my other.

"This way," I say, willing my voice to keep steady. I won't bring guilt down on his head. I won't distract him with my petty feelings. I won't let him see how much it bothers me. Though I may have failed on that last part. He still glances at me periodically, and I can't miss the worry sparking in those blue depths no matter how hard I try to. Every time I catch him doing it, I remind him of Zelda. I remind him, as much as myself, what's at stake here.

"She's waiting," I keep saying, and lead him where he must go. "We're almost there."

The stone wall I build around myself is littered with cracks, but it holds, and it conceals.

Or at least I thought it did.

Another enemy fallen. Link wipes the blood off his blade with a concerted look on his face, sheathes it, and walks up behind me, because I've already pushed ahead, eager to get away from the sight of carnage. When he calls to me there is something off about his voice. It is thinned, and almost…pained. I stop, I listen, unsure if what I heard was really there.

Then he squeezes my shoulder and quietly says two simple words. "I know."

Two little words. That's all it took. Panic fills me at the breach, and I stand ramrod straight, but it does nothing to stop the trembling of my lips or the overflow of my eyes. The shrill, sobbing gasps that rise and echo are strange and foreign, distant in a way, linked to me only by the constriction in my throat and the contraction of my lungs. I am distracted from them by two arms encircling me. I sag against him, shiver at the feel of his palm rubbing circles on my back. I'm not used to these gentle touches, not used to comfort or coddling.

"I know it's hard," he consoles. "And you might never get used to it, but…just focus on putting one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. That's what I do."

I curl inward, wanting to get away.

"I d-didn't want to have a moment, d-dammit," I say between hiccups, "don't b-bother with me. I'm fine. I'm f-fine…!" My voice goes high and breaks pitch and I can speak no more. He holds me closer, squeezes tighter, a rock amongst the turbulent emotions threatening to drown me. And, oh I, I would have fallen for him in that moment if I could have. His strength barred up my weakness. His unshakable kindness broke through my cold reticence. I wanted that strength, I wanted that courage. I almost wanted him. I wanted a hero. I wanted a Link.

But I am not his any more than he his mine. He belongs to another. And I belong…nowhere, I guess. Not anymore.

Besides, a hero won't do for me. I won't do for him, either. I cannot accept straightforward kindness anymore than I can give it. I would dance around him, skirt the edges, throwing sarcastic jibes to hide any selfless deed I may have wrought behind his back. I don't want to be thanked, it makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to be praised, it makes me uneasy. If my bar is set low, I can't possibly fail to reach it. I won't say I love you, but if you happen to find the niceties I did in secret perhaps you will smile and know.

That's not enough for someone like Link. Not enough. The secretive kindness of a coward could never hope to meet his standard. And he would be far too overbearing for me anyway. I would wilt in the intensity of his light.

But as I lean against him, I allow myself to think, if just for a moment, that it is a lover's embrace I'm in. I delude myself, siphon the strength I need from the hold of his warm arms, let my shortcomings and fears and weaknesses melt away.

 _You'd laugh at me, if you could see me from where you are, wouldn't you? You'd point and laugh and say, "As if!" Because you know me. Because you know our friendship was built on sarcastic footholds and laughing insults and playful swats. "You stupid hussy," you'd say with a smile. "You'd never get out a confession of love through those clenched teeth!"_

My jaw loosens, the grinding of my teeth stops. I drag my weight off of Link, stand on my own two feet. Furiously I scrub at my eyes. "Sorry, I— That wasn't supposed to— You weren't supposed to— Gah! Let's just go! We're late, we're going to be late and it's all my stupid fault! I'm dragging you down."

"Hey." Link's tone is firm and he grips my arm to keep me from stomping off. "We're not late and you're not dragging me down. I can't begin to tell you how helpful you've been. I don't know how long it would've taken me to find that fissure, or know which path to take. To tell you the truth, I… I've been…"

He looks down for a moment, and I see something glimmer in his eyes. A waver in the steel, a bend in what's supposed to be unbendable. It is gone like a fish in the sea, swimming up only briefly. The resolution returns.

"We'll get to Zelda in no time now—thanks to you. Stop beating yourself up."

I lower my head, beg the praise to fly over it. I focus instead on the command, as commands I can take. And, in the back of my mind, I think of his sudden hesitance. What was he just about to tell me? I look for that waver one more time. "Link…?"

Those blue eyes show no sign of weakness. It must have been my imagination.

He squeezes my shoulder. "Just stay behind me and look away. I won't let anything hurt you."

My gut lurches, my eyes sting. Dang it, Link, you've already made me cry once today. Are you trying to go for a record?

I do as he says anyway. I look away.

Except for the Spumes. I don't give a crap about the Spumes.

Cracked jewels and shattered stone paths adorned with ornate statues of marble elephants and jade snakes guide our way, give whispering testimony of an ancient civilization that used to rule this realm.

"Careful," I warn once we make it to the great inclines. "Boulders will drop from that catch up there. There's an indent in the wall we can dodge into. Come on."

The oven-like conditions wear on me, and the sprint up the inclines grind me down until I'm nothing but an aching, sweating mess of human flesh. Link's in better shape, of course. But then he would be.

At least…that's what I think at first. Right until his leg gives out, and he slips.

" _Link!_ " I shriek as he goes tumbling down the incline, dust and bits of rock left by the boulders scrabbling after him. He curls in on himself to reduce the damage, but he is not able to stop. He slides in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

I skitter at the top, boots scraping over stone as I start the treacherous decline, legs wobbling in struggle to keep me from falling too.

"No!" Link stumbles to his feet, waving an arm out to stop me. "Stay up there! I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" I call down, voice echoing dully amidst the hissing and bubbling rivers of magma.

"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine."

I don't like the hesitance in his voice, but do as I'm told. After backpedaling to the top, I watch him. I don't take my eyes off him for a second, not even to blink. As if I have psychic powers reliant on eye contact, as if I could actually stop him from falling. Now there's a power that would actually be helpful. Too bad I don't really have it.

But then, there as I watch him struggling up the laborious incline, I see something I haven't before. For a moment, those strong shoulders shake and slump in weariness, those legs I thought could support anything wobble as mine did, and those blue eyes, ever with a sheen of fortitude, squint in pain. His green cap is askew from the fall, and the dark blonde hair that isn't plastered down with sweat is fritzed in all directions.

For a moment, the image of the legendary hero wavers, and in its place is a boy from Skyloft. A boy who spent his time with his head in the clouds. A boy whose sleepy smile could melts anyone's heart. A boy who breezed through life without a care or trouble beyond a bit of bullying. A boy who is now suddenly in over his head.

Something of the image stirs my memory and in a flash I see my brother in his place. Messy, fritzed hair. Narrowed, pained eyes. A boy who was once free spirited, now sucked up into the grind.

It is then I am reminded I am Link's senior by three years. I shouldn't be leaning on him—he should be leaning on _me_.

My heart twists with an instinct long dormant and I can't help myself. I meet Link down a few feet, help him a little ways to the top. It's the least I can do.

Though it is not all I can do.

I am proficient with the bombs. He gets to wait and rest while I scout and decipher puzzles I already know the answers to, while I pinch fuses and carry deadly delicates with light feet. I clear paths for Link to surge ahead on. I catch up, wheezing gasps. A wave of heat blazes me, and I look up into the stone face of a dragon, molten hot magma spilling from its carven maw.

"All right," I say once I capture my breath. "We need to talk about some things."

* * *

"I'm going to fight a giant lava spider. It's going to burst out of a rock and breathe fire at me."

"Yes."

"When it sucks in air, I should throw a bomb in its mouth. That will stun it, and I'll be able to stab it in the eye."

I nod. "Yes."

"…Anything else I should know about?"

"Ghirahim will be laughing at you the entire time."

"…Of course," Link deadpans.

"Okay, not the entire time," I reiterate. "But he will be the one to sic it on you. Happily. And then he'll flounce away in the gayest shower of diamonds you've ever seen."

Link screws up his face, probably not liking the metal picture I just painted for him. "Of…course."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic, you're making my lazy ass look bad. Now let's go get that weird key thing."

* * *

There is another stone dragon waiting for us at the top of the incline. Its jaws are shut, but its claws are held up, bent like crimson soaked hooks, in a viscous show of menace. When the key to the final door rests in Link's hands, there is a rumbling, a slight tremor foreboding the subsequent one to follow.

"The boulder's coming," I say, voice high and insistent. "The boulder's coming, the boulder's—"

"What?"

"I TOLD you, don't act—!"

A great trembling is heard, is felt, and then the stone dragon's mouth drops open, and I swear Indiana Jones music starts playing.

I shove Link as hard as I can before starting down the twisting incline. "Run, Link, run! Don't be a hero! _Ruuun_!"

The rolling stone chases us all the way down the winding path. When the option for another path shows, we take it, leaping to the side and out of the rolling catastrophe's way. The boulder continues on until it rams right up into the lava-vomiting dragon's mouth.

"That was the boss by the way," I say between pants as I lay beside Link.

He lifts his head groggily. "What…?"

"The fire spider. That was the rock."

"That?" He slumps, an exasperated expression melding into his face. "Great, just great."

"Yep."

Link sighs before hefting himself up. "Well, I guess I…better go deal with it."

"Yep." I hop to my feet.

Link levels me with an unwavering stare.

"I'm not gonna cry over this one! Geez!" I huff and snort in anger, ears coloring in embarrassment. "Let's just go! Heaven forbid. If we have another sentimental moment, I will stab myself!"

"Maybe it would be better if you waited—"

"Nope. Let's go."

Link halts me with a hand to my shoulder. He doesn't say anything, but when he catches my eye his gaze is hard. I squirm under the look, cast my own stare to the ground to avoid it.

"What?" I finally grind out.

"Ghirahim will be in there."

"I know."

A pause. And then, "I don't want you in there."

"If you left me here, he'd come get me. He can sense auras just like Fi can. It wouldn't matter if you buried me under a ton of rocks—he'd know where I was."

Link says nothing, but his frown hardens. "Like Fi can…" he mutters after a while, to himself.

His hand flexes. He squeezes me too hard. Unintentionally, I'm sure, but I still flinch. Neither of us move for a while, and it is after the extended silence that I glance at him. He isn't looking at me anymore, but at the ground with knitted brow, sharp frown, and searching eyes. As if a solution will pop up out of the dirt for him.

I struggle to break the quiet, though know I must if we are to continue forward. "…I can't—I can't promise everything will go as it should once we get in there. But… I want to stay with you. I know the monster's attacks; I can dodge. And the fire spider—what's it called?—Scaldera isn't human enough for me to freeze up over. And, maybe, if I stay behind you Ghirahim will forget me again…"

He still doesn't say anything to me. He doesn't budge either.

I shift uncomfortably, bite my lip.

"Stay right by me."

The words are sudden, make me jump. I tentatively look up into his steely eyes, nodding dumbly when I realize he is waiting for a response. He holds my eyes for a moment longer, as if his unyielding strength can be transferred through stare alone. He firmly nods once, accepting my silent pledge and perhaps making one of his own. My nervousness flitters to life, and I reach out to grab his sleeve.

"Ghirahim is," I say, and then pause, stumbling for the right way to explain. "He's…he's really weird. And he act's weird, and he dresses like a—never mind. The point is he's a lot stronger than he looks. Way stronger. You haven't seen the full extent of what he can do, and right now…" I touch fingers to my throat, hunch my back. "Right now, if he went all out, you…you wouldn't be able to…"

I am unable to say it, shudder just to think it.

"Just—just don't make him any madder than you have to, Link," I whisper, wishing I could say something encouraging instead of demoralizing. "Don't do anything rash. Just fight Scaldera, and…stay safe. I can take care of myself."

Link stands unmoving, a strange look on his face. His hands have fallen to his sides, have balled into fists, and his mouth is drawn in a grim line, but…

Something flickers in those too-wide blue eyes.

"Link…?" I whisper, stepping forward lightly. There it is. That waver in the steel again.

"What's going to happen?"

I freeze. My eyes and ears open wide. The voice which speaks to me is quiet. Breathy. Almost shaky. For a moment those steel blue eyes are as transparent as water. The fists at his sides barely contain the slight trembling running down his arms.

Once again, I do not see a legendary hero. I see a boy from Skyloft who, before his best friend fell from the sky, had nothing to worry about. And now he's bewildered, in over his head, doing what he must because he has to. Because there is no one else who will.

My own hands tighten, nails cutting into my palms. "I won't let anything happen to y—"

"What about Zelda?" he interjects. "What about you?"

My mouth opens and closes. Is he not worried for himself?

"…Zelda will be fine," I say, choosing my words carefully. "You'll get to her."

"And you?"

"I—I'm…" I pause, because I am the one subject whose fate I know nothing about. "I'm staying with you. Right by you, like you said."

"What about Ghirahim's true strength?"

Brain stuttering, I struggle to answer. "He's proud. His pride is…huge, to say the least. The chance of him going all out against a tiny, insignificant human—or what he _thinks_ is tiny and insignificant—is…well, it's very low. Unless we somehow piss him right the hell off. And I mean REALLY piss him off. If we just do as we're supposed to, it won't happen. And if it does…if it does…"

Link's beseeching expression slowly shifts into one of mounting anger. "I'll fight him. I'll have to."

"No," I snap. "No, you won't."

"Then who will? You?"

I fidget restlessly, shifting foot to foot, grasping and ungrasping the handle of the cleaver. If Ghirahim went all out, I don't know how long I'd last. Probably not as long as Link. Or maybe I would, depending on how long I could dodge. I wouldn't be able to land a hit, though, not with this beat up blade.

Link throws a glance to the final door. "Listen, I've been floundering around ever since I set foot on this…world, but…right now there's nowhere to go except forward." His resolution flickers again, for the briefest moment. "I don't know…if I'll be able to keep you or Zelda safe. But I'm going to try. Even if it kills me, I will try."

His conviction floods back full force. The hero reflects off the glassy surface, while the watery reflection of the boy wavers beneath the shield of destiny.

"It's not going to kill you," I say, eyes narrowed. " _I won't let it_!"

Link follows after me after I snatch the puzzle key from his grasp and run to push it into the door. As the intricately painted red and gold doors part, I cast a sideways look at him, wonder if I should expand on my explanations. If I should tell him of pale skin that turns black, of dark eyes that turn white, of flesh tougher than any armor. Of a being not even the Goddess Sword—as it is now—could hope to wound.

The doors open fully with a creaking boom. Before we enter I whisper it. "You are the only hope Zelda has. If you die it's all over. She'll be safe behind her barrier, so if for whatever reason pale skin turns dark, you _run_."

Link turns his head to look at me, and this time I do not shy from locking eyes. My stare is stone, as unbending as his steel.

"I won't just leave you," he hisses in offense, as if the very suggestion was a blow to his integrity.

"Oh, I'll be right behind you, no doubt about that." My candid reply seems to soothe him, and he lets it drop.

Side by side, we walk into the final room, a room of rock and bone and fire. Stone columns and banisters with golden designs of suns flank us on either side, shepherd us up a winding ramp. When we get to the top the ominous boulder rolls above us, through the ribcage of a long dead dragon. I briefly marvel at the dragon's size, wonder what kind of monstrosity it must have been, wonder if it could be an ancestor to Volvagia.

Contemplations on how the creature died are cut short, as I must keep pace as Link rushes ahead. Fi materializes from the Goddess Sword, and as I come up behind them I catch the tail end of her calculations on the broken chain that held Zelda prisoner.

"…probability that Zelda was bound by it recently at ninety-five percent. I surmise Zelda was able to escape and proceed along this path. I suggest we continue with all possible speed." The flat, technologic voice disperses as the blue sword spirit jumps back into the blade.

"Calculations aren't my thing, but make that one hundred percent. She's here, make no mistake." My eyes do not leave the sluggish boulder traversing the boney cage above, not until it rolls out of sight. When it does I look back to Link. "…And so is _he_."

Link's jaw sets, and he nods. "Stay right by me," he reminds.

I side-step closer in affirmation. And then we continue.

When we jump from the platform and race up the dragon ramp, I wait for it, and then I hear it. Link and I skid to a stop.

A dark laugh echoes throughout the chamber. Our gazes track the sound upward and come to rest on the tall white figure perched atop another stone dragon's head.

I grit my teeth and lower my head. Here we go.

* * *

 **A/N: I attempted to implement the advice I was given and expand the characters. I'm not sure how it turned out.  
**

 **Reviews are always appreciated, and thank you for reading.**

 **P.S. (potential spoiler?) ...I am currently stuck inside a camel on BotW. Hurray for progress!**


	11. mercy bought

**A/N: Life has been busy. My scatterbrained self didn't do well in keeping up with responses. Thank you Moon ninja Luna, Mokki Takashi, Walavouchey, SarukoDark, PokemonTrainer4700, Velikaqueenofdragons, Ambiguous Cake, Bluebadger, CrashingUpward, Zorauza, and Alter Ego Bob for your understanding and encouragement.**

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

"There you are, darling! Where have you been? I turned around and you were gone; I've been looking everywhere for you!" Ghirahim stops suddenly, notices Link. "Oh, it's you."

Familiar fear tingles along my spine, spreads out like a wildfire to the rest of my overheated body. But it is a cold fire, deep in my gut, that brings about shivers I fail to suppress. Link is near, and unconsciously I lean closer to him.

Ghirahim leans forward on his hips, thoughtful expression fixated on the green-clad hero. "Let me see… No, that's not it. This is so very embarrassing, but I seem to be at a loss for your name. Not that it matters, really. To tell you the truth, I'm feeling a bit frustrated, and right now I just need someone to vent to." His cheerful, amicable tone is deceptively flawless, and if I didn't know to delve beneath it I might have been fooled. But I know, and so I hear, the ever so slight trembling of his voice, the part that shakes in anger like a beast struggling against its chains. It won't be long before he lets it loose.

My mind churns, tries to think of anything else I can do to prepare Link further. It comes up empty.

"I heard my underlings had finally captured the spirit maiden, so of course I rushed over here. What can I say? I was excited. Flustered, even... But what did I find when I arrived? That agent of the goddess..." The demon's voice goes very quiet. "…she had once again...you see, what I'm trying to say is..." He suddenly bursts out shouting: "That goddess-serving DOG escaped with the GIRL!"

Stealing bravery from the presence beside me, trying to ignore the budding dread that's taken root in my stomach, I raise my hand. "Pick up that phone, 'Master,' because I frickin' called it!"

Link looks over at me, brow pinched in confusion. Ghirahim, on the contrary, seems to understand the gist of what I've said despite phones not existing in this world, and his eyes glint with malevolent promise. "Now would not be a good time to interrupt me, _darling_."

Oh, yeah, the emphasis he puts on the darling enlightens me to how foul his mood really is. He better not take it out on me. I've warned him and warned him.

…What am I saying? Of course he's going to take it out on me.

Well, better me than Link.

The dread grows.

His dark eyes stay on me, run swift up and down my battered frame, and for some reason his expression hardens even further. I suppose it's disgust at my current state; the black edges of my tunic, the frayed mess of my hair, the angry red splotches of healing burns, and a lot of other things that are gross about me that I don't care to know or name.

Ghirahim does not speak for a moment. His fingers fidget in and out of fists, the movement scarcely visible from the folds of his red cape. "…I'm getting carried away, aren't I? I don't deal well with complications to plans I've laid out so carefully. It's a character flaw of mine, I'll admit."

I do not scoff as I want to, do not shout, 'One of many,' as I wish to. Suddenly a chill creeps into my blood, clogs my throat. Suddenly the dread wriggles into my mind and tells me something I should have known all along. Something I should have never dared to hope against.

"Link," I whisper, "Listen, if…if I don't come out of this with you, I want to you promise me something." I don't wait for him to reply. "When you defeat Scaldera, when you see Zelda—and you _will_ see her—promise me…that you'll tell the twig beside her to take her lateness lecture and shove it up her ass. Right after she pulls out the tree she's got up there first."

Link coughs.

"You are an awesome hero," I continue in a quick murmur, "and considering that you've been torn from your home and thrust into all this mess makes—it makes the skill you have now all that more amazing. So don't let Impa get you down. You—you keep chugging forward. You be the best damn green bean you can be."

I say the last part lightly, trying to smile. One: to keep myself calm, and two: to prevent another 'moment.' The situation is dire enough as is.

Ghirahim's dark eyes bore into mine, flicker to my mouth and back again. Can he read lips? My mind frets, tongue clams, and then I am sucked into those black pits. He holds me with stare alone, does not release me even as he addresses Link. "On top of everything that's gone wrong today, my prophetess wanders off to heaven knows where. I'm sure you can imagine how worried I was. Sickened by it, actually," he says sweetly, crooning as if he really means it. And I'm sure he does—as worried as he would be for a lost book that contains critical knowledge. "I am _so glad_ you found her for me."

The whisper of sword leaving sheath sounds beside me, and the next I know I'm in Link's arms again. His shield arm comes around my shoulders, his sword rises protectively to the front. His glare is resolute, unblinking, and I marvel at him. Without saying a single word, he has conveyed absolute defiance. For me. And for a moment there is hope. Tears prick at my eyes once more, and I swallow thickly to contain them.

Ghirahim's soft laughter filters down from the dragon's head, this one of darker stone than the others, with smiling, red-rimmed teeth. "What good do you think that will do, boy?"

Link stands his ground, holds his glare.

The demon loses the buffer of pleasantness, takes on a sharper edge. "I must have the spirit maiden to resurrect my master. I need my prophetess to ensure things go smoothly." His face suddenly twists into a snarl. "I won't have you meddling with either!"

"Run!" I hiss to Link just as the snap of Ghirahim's fingers resounds through the ancient chamber. The jaws of the dark dragon drop open and Link and I sprint from the boulder it spits.

Embers and ashes flit like angry hornets in the waves of heat wafting throughout the massive room. We tear through them, but it is the heat that drags me down, brings out gasps of exhaustion even though we run downhill, down the singular ramp that is supposed to represent a dragon's back with its smooth stone floor and spiked metal rails. Lava on either side of those rails prevents us from jumping to avoid the rolling rock. But the end of the ramp comes, and the sound of stone crunching stone gets ever closer.

Suppressing the urge to split apart, I ram into Link, force him to the side so the boulder may pass unhindered by human speedbumps. Even as we peel ourselves away from the rail, I stick to his side like glue.

The blossom of dread reveals itself.

I'm going to be taken. The moment I step away, I'm going to be taken.

And that is what terrifies me the most. Not the screaming spider-like monster that's just cracked its way out of that boulder, not the hissing fire, not even the thought of burning to death.

Ghirahim is going to take me. The knowledge of that crept up on me like a vine and now it sinks its thorns into me, as sure and irrefutable as any knowledge I have carried from the Knowing Realm. He's going to tear me away. And there's not a thing I or anyone else can do about it.

Fear drums with my heart, labors with my burning lungs and intensifies the stabbing pain that erupts in both torso and legs. But it is also the only thing that prevents me from slowing. Like a whip to a horse, it spurns me onward, matching pace with Link, with the only person who could possibly hold the demon at bay. But if he does, if he tries…

If I hide behind him when the time comes, who is to say Ghirahim won't cut through him?

Sweat pours down my back, beads my forehead and upper lip, and clothing and hair stick to skin.

The demon is up there, watching. I can feel his eyes as sure as I can feel the searing heat of the mountain's fire.

I go as far as my battered body can go. I shout forewarn direction, dance out of the way of flames, pilfer and throw bombs at the creature, all the while staying near Link. Yet I stay behind him when the time for slashing swords comes, as his white blade can do so much more than my stolen cleaver. I skirt around him like a shadow, become his shadow.

Until the edging flare of a fireball grazes me, and my blood blooms from the wound.

The she-wolf bares her teeth.

The vicious glee of mania tears through me, gives me a kick of adrenaline that drowns out the pain and exhaustion. My mind whirls like a nightmare version of a carousel, psychotic lights and snarling horses abound. And it demands more than it suggests. I heed it without thinking twice—my body moves to the crack of its whip before even a shred of doubt can form.

I barrel after Scaldera as it rolls down the incline, for the first time surging ahead of Link. My legs take long, leaping strides, and I hear amid the blare of heat and heartbeats as Link's gasps increase.

"Wait! Ky—?" His loud exclamation turns into unsure question as I blast straight past the fiery abomination and leap onto the wall it just crashed into.

Fissures and chipped cracks are found by my violently seeking fingers and feet, and I scramble up the wall Link and I had jumped down from to get onto this hellish ramp in the first place. I must look like a grudge monster, or a spider woman crawling up that wall. Perhaps more so when I stand on top of said wall, pivoting on my heel to face the back of Scaldera, my wild, choppy hair fritzed and flaring.

I do not think about what I do next—it was my whirling mind's intent all along—and I simply let the energy raging inside push me off my perch and send me flying down onto the fire abomination's back. Scaldera, feeling the _thump!_ of my landing roars its fires back to life, and the hot sparks and embers hiss and nip at my boots. The lumpy rocks I stand on quickly heat up—I feel it through my soles, but I do not jump off.

In the clamor I did not realize I dropped the cleaver, and so when the hulking bulged eye of the monster swivels to regard me I have nothing to slice it with. So I use the only thing I have. I crouch and dig into it with my fingers and nails, using them like spears and knives.

I don't know how much damage I do—in my frenzy I don't care. Fear pulses through me as sure as rapids gush out into waterfalls, and that fear gives birth to nothing but rage. Rage taking hold when fear sounds its alarm—hasn't it always done so? Rage, rage, rage. Rage at my aching wounds, rage at my heat exhausted body, rage at this thing for trying to _frickin' kill us!_ Well I'm going to kill it first!

Scaldera shrieks and howls, its spidery body taking off into a full speed scuttle up the ramp. The fire at my feet glows and crackles. I barely notice the bottom of my soles melting, smearing black rubber on the rocks as I stagger to keep balance. I barely notice anything outside of that eye and the clawing of my fingers. But faintly, very faintly, I take notice of green in my peripheral.

" _Are you fucking crazy?!_ " Link shouts above all the commotion. He runs alongside Scaldera, perspiration running down his brow, wide blue eyes staring up at me in an odd mixture of awe and fear.

I laugh at his slip into profanity. Laugh, because I do not have the time or patience to stop and gawk in surprise. Laughing, I continue my assault on the wriggling eye, leaning and stretching and struggling to keep upright as it moves along its molten body, trying to get away.

"For the love of the Goddess, Kya! Catch! Catch!"

The white blade slices through the air and towards me. I snap upright and jerk my hand out. With shock I register my fingers have closed around the hilt of the heavenly sword.

Well…looks like all those games of catching daggers with Ghirahim paid off.

I don't give myself time to marvel or congratulate, instead tuning back into my anger. Only this time, I have an actual weapon. I grip the sword in both hands and plunge it downward, over and over and over. Scaldera's shrieks take on a new pitch, becoming so shrill my ears hurt from the intensity. Even then I do not stop. If anything it urges my rage further. I scream and squawk, and scarcely do I even realize what I'm saying. English profanities meld one into the other with nary a sensible word thrown here and there.

The twiggy legs of the fire monster scrape against the stone floor as it struggles up the steepest part of the incline. When its entire body shudders, I know it's about to ball up and roll back down.

"Jump!" Link shouts.

One more, I think as I raise the sword high. The energy of rage and fear boils inside me and when I stab downward with all my might there is a flash of white. White light that seems to dart from my center, through my arms, and through the Goddess Sword. Scaldera shudders and goes deathly still. The glow of its fire seeps away, leaving only the hiss of drenched embers. My confusion sparks for only an instant—there was no water to put out the fire and what was that light again?—before it is dragged off. The ball that the monster has regressed into rolls backwards.

It threatens to take me under and crush me. I sprint, trying to stay on top, but its speed builds too quickly. I hear Link, somewhere to my side.

"To the side! Jump to the side!"

In panic and desperation, I do as told without thinking, stagger and flop off the side of the monster instead of trying to jump out to the front. The stone of the floor punches my shoulder and hip, leaving me to writhe and curl in pain. Link's gasps sound above me as he slides to my side. His hands touch my waist and shoulder, steadying me. "You're insane," I hear him breathe roughly. "You're absolutely insane."

I say nothing, I cannot. I just struggle to get air into my screeching lungs; every breath feels like claws tearing at the fleshy tissue inside, with every expansion that oxygen forces. Distantly I hear Scaldera finish its descent and smack with a _boom_ against the wall below. Distantly I wonder about that light, about the sword still clutched in my hand, and about…

I glance up, up to the stone dragon, despite the pain movement causes me. Or rather, I look to what sits upon its head. Ghirahim has adopted a relaxed position in complete opposition to the glare festering in his dark eyes. He sits with one leg dangling off the dragon, while the other leg is bent and propping up his arm, and his chin rests in his palm. He looks both bored and angry, like a child watching a play that wasn't going quite the way he wanted it to.

When malevolence twinkles in his eye, and a smirk tugs the corner of his lips, everything in me seems to go still. Even the rapid beating of my heart.

The demon flickers out of sight. I try to warn Link, but before I can croak out the first letter of his name, he is grabbed by the back of his tunic and torn away from me. I flinch as he smacks against the dragon rails.

"I suppose I should give you _some_ credit, boy. You're tenacious. Not that such a trait will help you against me."

Ghirahim stalks towards Link, who has yet to recover from the toss. My body feels as lead as I scramble to my knees, but it is too little too late and I can do nothing as the demon sends Link tumbling down the ramp with a swift kick. "Gh—! M-Master…!"

But he does not regard me; his full focus is on Link. The smile twitching at his mouth is a poorly concealed lie, and it gives way to a sneer as the stern malice in his eyes reaches the rest of his expression.

Link staggers to his feet a ways down the ramp, and it is with a start I realize he is swordless. My arm and my hand feel stiff, the Goddess Sword frozen in a grip that cannot release. Though I try to pry my fingers open with will alone, my body does not obey.

And as black veins creep from under those white gloves, I understand why. My fear has taken the next step, and it freezes me in petrified disbelief.

 _Don't piss him off, do what you're supposed to do and don't make him madder than you have to—isn't that what you said?!_ My mind plays back for me. Yes, I did say that. Too bad in the heat of things I was not coherent enough to remember.

Pale skin is not supposed to turn dark. Not yet.

Please not yet.

My body explodes with tremors, and it seems to be the only way in which I can move.

The same is not said for Link. He rises to his feet, planting his exhausted body upright. Nothing but rage and defiance simmers in his glare. His fists bear at his sides, half raised, as if he plans to fight the demon lord with nothing but his bare hands.

"You are proving to be quite troublesome…" Ghirahim says in an overly thoughtful manner. He examines the fingers of one hand with a cool gaze and sudden smile, as if he has become distracted by his own loveliness. The black veins have stopped at his elbow, going no further. "Although, it would be rather harsh of me, I suppose, if I bludgeoned you here and now. After all, you did bring me my little bird, safe and sound." His expression turns dark. "Though I must wonder at her _condition_. She is not as I left her."

And throwing a giant fire monster at me did not help said condition. I refrain from saying it.

Link responds with no words, only action. He starts forward, glare still potent, with nothing but his fists and his fighting spirit. I stare wide-eyed, but cannot glimpse a split of the uncertain boy from Skyloft. I blink only once, and then they are both there, the hero and the boy as one. Rage has shuttered his fear, but unlike mine, it is a calm fury. He marches with it stoically against an opponent he has no chance of beating.

Ghirahim stares with an oddly blank expression. "If you insist, sky child." And he moves towards Link in that purposeful stride I've become far too used to seeing.

But Link isn't that stupid, though he nearly fools me. He turns on his heel unexpectedly and dashes for me in an attempt to reassert himself as a barrier between the demon and me.

A chime of magic rings out, and Ghirahim is before me, knocking Link back with yet another kick.

"Stop!" I mean to cry out, but it only comes out as a wet warble, caught in my throat by anxiousness and drained mania. I attempt to form the word again at the sight of Link stumbling to his feet with a hand clutching his side and one eye squinted in pain.

Ghirahim acknowledges me, head tilted in a manner that hides a good portion of his face thanks to that curtain of hair.

My manic frenzy wants to rise up at the threat of him, and mentally it does. Rage covers fear. But physically I…

I try to run at him. But one faulty step and I'm flat on my face, the sword still in my hand clinking beside me. When I try to get up again, my entire being seems to protest. Lungs can take no more; my breath is lost. Darkness dots my vision and my legs crumble beneath me. I try to surge back up, but I fall again and again and again, stumbling like a newborn filly just free of the womb.

"Why, little bird, has all the excitement gotten to you?"

The metallic ring of his teleportation echoes and arms stronger than steel circle around me, keep me from falling another time. But those arms are cold. Cold and smooth with a tingle that pierces all the way down to my heart. His breath ghosts over the back of my head. I mumble incoherency, but he takes it as a viable phrase of his own imagining.

"Oh, yes, yes, you're right. We've wasted enough time as is. But before we go, a little present for your… _friend_." Ghirahim hisses the last word like an agitated cobra, sounding beyond poisonous.

Ghirahim snaps his fingers and the smoldering hulk of Scaldera jolts as a hex of diamonds flitters around it. It jars back to life, fire flaring hot once more, and its shrill scream fills the chamber.

The sensation of being yanked and contorted nearly brings my consciousness to an end. Darkness clears, and I see what the stone dragon sees: the ramp and fire far below.

Laughter resonates through the chamber; the hard chest I'm pressed up against rumbles with it. "I'd love to stay and watch you burn to a crisp, sky child, but I have things to do, places to be. Although it's a shame, really. Your agony is such a great stress reliever." Ghirahim crushes me close, and his voice turns a dangerous growl. "Ready, darling? No more delays."

I cannot tear my eyes away from Link. He calls for me, sprints up the incline. I want to shout to him, not only in fear for myself, but because Scaldera follows him, fire crackling in its maw. But I cannot scream. I cannot even whisper.

The last thing I do, the only thing I can do, is reach out and drop the Goddess Sword. _Protect your master_ , I want to say. I only manage to mouth it. I like to think I heard a chime from that sword, from Fi telling me not to worry.

And then I am taken away.

* * *

We reappear outside the temple. The warm breeze feels chilled compared to the blistering air in the temple, and I nearly collapse with the relief of it. I am not given time to enjoy it long, however.

"That was quite the show you put on."

Something sharp and painful connects to the back of my skull, knocking me to the ground in a graceless heap. I lay still with my face in the dirt, both the prickle of fear and the weight of exhaustion keeping me down. I hiss as I am grabbed by my hair, hoisted up. I arch my back to lessen the pull.

Ghirahim's voice is sharper than I've ever heard it. "What did you think you were doing?"

"…Surviving," I grit between clenched teeth.

He yanks me up the rest of the way, to my feet.

I am spun around to face my captor, and then shaken violently. As suddenly as it started, it stops, and Ghirahim's fingers dig into my upper arms, stilling me, holding me, adding sharp stabs of pain that run up to my whiplashed neck. "Which is something you wouldn't have had to do if you stayed where I left you! Were you trying to run away?!"

I hunch over, head down so that he will not see my pained grimace or screwed shut eyes.

My chin is snatched between forefinger and thumb, and my head is forced up, but I do not open my eyes. "Look at me," he hisses. "I said look at me, you little twit!"

My glare snaps open. "You—!" Memory shoves forth an image of dagger to lips, and I clamp down on the word 'Dick!' in the nick of time. "You left without a word! What was I supposed to do?!"

There is a moment of silence before he leans down to my face, and slowly speaks as if to a child, "Wait for me."

Words die in my throat. He looks down on me unblinkingly, elongated canines bared as he sneers, brow lowered over a black fire glower. And suddenly I am transfixed. A predator bears down on me, a snarling beast of unfathomable rage and power and, and…

 _And he's beautiful,_ whispers an intrusive thought from the back of my mind. I slam it away the second it opens the door. That wasn't my thought. I did not think that. He's not beautiful. He's hateful, he's dangerous. Ugly and mean. Don't look away, says the she-wolf. Do not give ground, because if you do he will take it—all of it. Yet at the same time the ewe begs me to run, run and hide from those sharp teeth and blazing glare. Trapped between the two, my legs quiver with the strain to stay still, and my eyes are wide with both fear and prickling temper.

"And just what were you doing with that boy?!" he seethes, pulling me closer, so close we touch, and I am forced to crane my head to look up at him. "Did you really think he could protect you? Did you think that insignificant little bug could keep me from you? Speaking of bugs, do you have any idea how tedious it is to find a bug in a temple that size? Hmm? How can your aura be large as the goddess's and then be smaller than an insect's in the next?" He mumbles the last part, genuine confusion smoothing over rage, but only for a moment. It flashes back to life in an instant.

His palm rears up and I fear a strike.

Tired, overheated, wounded—anger does not congregate to steel my frazzled nerves, and so words tumble out unbidden.

"I panicked!" I squeak. "You left, I couldn't find you, I panicked!"

He pauses, for a mere moment becoming like a statue. The dark crackling glare gives the only testimony to life beneath that cold infallible skin.

I shy from his hand, unable to resist the ewe's call any longer, inching away bit by bit on shaking legs. "I couldn't get through by myself—I went with Link because I knew he was going where you were. Wh-what was I supposed to do? I couldn't find you. But I knew where you were going to be—I went with Link because I _knew where you were going to be_."

Anxiety incites repetition, spins my weak words like a fading record on a dying gramophone. I must sound so foolish.

He does not move. I do not move. Everything is still for one painful, agonizing moment. And then his hand darts out. My eyes slam shut and my teeth bare in the flinch, preparing for impact.

It never comes.

Cool, impossibly cool, fingers graze along the raw skin of my burned cheek, trailing it to my jawline, and then my neck, and then my… I peel open my eyes, risk a peek. The fire of his rage still burns in those dark eyes but there is a stiffness to his face. The clench of his jaw is barely discernable through that pale, flawless skin. He fingers the neckline of my tunic, then up to a frayed lock of hair, until finally resting again on my cheek. They are like sickles of ice on my reddened skin, numbing the sting, soothing the aching heat.

He says nothing. He does not even seem to breathe.

I swallow a cry as he leans down to me and runs a soft tongue over the burns of my face, following the same path his fingers did. A part of me, sharpened by fear, wants to run away, but I dare not move, not even when he traces the pulse point up and down my neck.

When he pulls away there is a dimming of his glare, and a certain heaviness takes its place.

"Don't think you've escaped punishment, Kya. I'll deal with your misfit wandering later. But for now"—He touches my burns—"we need to rectify this."

I don't know how to respond. I don't think I could if I tried. It's the strangest thing: the caress of fingertip and tongue seem to have lulled me into a sleepy stupor, for a duration so strong I cannot fully hear his subsequent grumblings about the empty Bokoblin camp. Or maybe it's the heat, my aches, exhaustion. Surely not the touch of winter, the feel of wet snow melting on my burns, making me feel as a fish swimming against a silvery current. The trance does not break until his ire ignites once more.

Dark eyes narrow to slits, focus on something in the corner. "Oh, look. A survivor."

I follow the sparks of his anger to a shivering husk that has just fallen through the sticks of a crumbling hut. The Bokoblin's red skin is pale, lightened to a faded scarlet. Highlighting it further are the pink, almost white, lines crisscrossing every which way. Scars that look like bloodied trenches in an intersection, some thick as pens, some thin as needles. How many battles must it have seen? To have survived all that… Poor thing looks as if it got into a knife fight with a complete psycho.

My brain turns over slowly. Very slowly.

Knife. Psycho. Why do I suddenly feel like I'm forgetting something?

I go pale as realization crests, just as a black blade materializes and cuts all thought short.

"What the—what are you—? Master?! Master, wait, no—! _Master!_ "

"I told you to keep an eye on her; I told you to watch her!" Ghirahim hisses with a voice so guttural it no longer sounds human. He then descends into a dark, heavy language I cannot understand. It is clipped and sharp, and every word feels like a blow of iron.

The little Bokoblin is reduced to a curled ball of quivering flesh as the pale figure of death marches towards it. My tugging hands and dirt-indented heels do nothing to slow him. His blade is raised high and then brought down like a streak of dark against the daylight.

Red blossoms.

It flows in rivulets down my arm, stemming from where the blade bit into me. From my hand, which rose up in a foolish attempt to abate rage. The sharp edge of the sword rests between middle and index finger, having sunk into the slight webbing there, sending snapping waves of pain through my hand and arm. Despite this I know it could have been worse, could have split between my knuckles and rendered my entire forearm in two. But it did not—and does not. It hovers, having only nipped me, because the strength and reflex of the demon wielding it is as sharp as it is.

His widened, shocked eyes are only so for a moment—only in the moment I ran and twisted myself in front of him with hand raised. Then it is replaced by tight-lipped outrage, and his eyes convey all that he is about to seethe.

I become more rattled when he remains silent.

Silence permeates everything, so thick and overpowering I find myself choked, so much so that I cannot even manage a whimper as he retracts the blade. I clutch my wounded hand to my chest, but never take my eyes off him. The sword hangs at his side and a tremor runs through it, as if it also fears the hand that holds it. But then I realize it's not the sword. It's him.

He is so angry he shakes with it.

I stumble backwards and almost fall over the ugly creature I was trying to protect. Remembering why I just did what I did, I hold my ground, as stupid as that may be. Instinct screams for self-preservation and my mind spins quickly—quickly, I have to say something! He's going to erupt and when he does nothing this volcano can havoc will be able to compare.

"You're—you can't! I mean, it's—!"

"I will give you one chance," the demon says so quietly I must strain to hear, "to move aside, before I bodily throw you against the rocks, child, _one chance_."

He hisses the last two words and I find myself lowering, knees bending, leaning back like a weed cowering from poison. Still, I do not move. I couldn't even if I wanted to. Fear has locked my legs and rooted my feet.

" _You're shooting yourself in the foot_ ," I croak in English, and the words seem to give him pause, if only for a second. " _You wouldn't have lost the spirit maiden if they kept ahold of her—which they would've if they weren't so stupid. Did you ever wonder why they're stupid? It's because of this. Because you never let them learn. One mistake and they're dead._ "

I plead my case in English, then plead again in Hylian. I see the interest spark in his eyes, see as his mind works faster than mine ever could as he matches known words to their unknown counterparts. And it is as I intended. A gift, a translation which he sought before we were interrupted in the tower, a payment in exchange for his consideration.

" _Let this one learn, see if it makes a difference. You can just kill him later if not. You'll either benefit or lose nothing. Smarter soldiers mean less mistakes, less mistakes mean greater success._ " I repeat in Hylian, and then hold my breath.

Mercy disguised as practicality, compassion employed like a useful tool. It is the only way he could ever accept any of it.

My heart beats faster, pounds against the unmoving walls of my lungs in a demand for more oxygen. But I cannot give, cannot move, not even to breathe or look away. Once again he sucks me into those black depths. _Pray, pray, pray_ says a voice so soft. For the first time in a long time I obey, send a quick plea to the only God I've ever believed in.

Ghirahim strikes out like a snake. His grip on my upper arms threatens to break bone in half, and I am sure he is about to slam me against the rocks as he said he would. But then he just stands there, glaring at me.

And then he smiles.

"All right, little bird. Have it your way. We'll give your experiment a test run. But when that worthless idiot behind you fails it, rest assured that I'll tear him into bloody little pieces. And, darling, when I do…" The demon leans down, presses his mouth so close to my ear I feel lip move over fang as he whispers, " _I'm going to make you watch._ "

* * *

 **A/N: I did my best. I hope you liked it.**

 **I had originally deleted the part where Kya jumped onto Scaldera, on the grounds that it wasn't realistic. But then I reconsidered. Realism for the sake of realism can be boring.**

 **...The camel could not keep me down.**


	12. fever dream

**A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, WaruWaru, Ambiguous Cake, Alter Ego Bob, PokemonTrainer4700, Voidlash (cool new name! :D), Mokki Takashi, Wingdings13, Bluebadger, Lily, Onoskelis, and TheAlmightyPanda for your reviews and encouragement. I apologize if any of my replies were incoherent or babbling. I haven't been sleeping well since...forever. XP  
**

 **A couple of you asked a really good question, and I'm going to address it now: When a character speaks English, it will always be stated (i.e. she said in English). If it is not stated to be English, assume it is not. I use italics to emphasize certain words and phrases, and though all English sentences will be in italics, not all italics will be English. I apologize for the confusion.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 12**

Ghirahim barks something out in that dark, heavy tongue I cannot understand. Whatever he says, it has the little Bokoblin up and scurrying away without so much as a backward glance of gratitude for me. Not that I'd expect it. I mean… Those crisscrossing scars…

That can't be the same one, can it?

Creepings of guilt fall short. I am yanked forward, face smooshed into Ghirahim's hard chest. The hand splayed at the back of my head keeps me there. My nose searches for oxygen, my cheek slides against the velvety red of his cape. A small comfort when my facial bones feel like they're being crushed by the surface beneath. As I breathe in, a strange, metallic scent fills my nose. I attempt a disgruntled snort to signal my displeasure at his rough treatment. Of course it only comes out as a strangled huff. Of course it goes completely disregarded.

Ghirahim raises the black blade to the sky. He brings it down in a slow arch trailing dark mist, the sounds of metal and magic echoing in the hot mountain air. I am pulled apart and put back together again, and then the cold breeze of the tower is whispering around me.

I am able to breathe once he releases my head, my face freed from his cloak, and take in the fresh air thankfully.

Ghirahim moves around me, and for a moment he has me thinking he's leaving me to nurse my wounds in peace. That is until his chest presses to the back of my head, and pale arms tough as steel trap me in a mockery of an embrace. I stand rigid as he wilts over me and rests his cheek, hard as a diamond, on the crown of my soft head.

My heart pounds into the ensuing silence. I hear his breaths, feel them ghost over my hair.

A soft moan comes from his throat, startling my heart to stillness.

"I've had a bad day," he laments, wilting around me further, shoulders sagging, making himself my cage, getting ever more confined and snug.

I am careful, so, so careful in my response. He cannot think I am against him now, or he will blame me, and if he blames me there will be no mercy. "…She can't evade you forever."

"Mmm, I know, but it would have been so nice to have her sooner rather than later."

"All good things take time."

He _hmphs_ deep in his chest. "Well, well, aren't you just the proprietor of wisdom today."

I try to keep from shaking. "I'm your prophetess."

After I say it, the words sear themselves into my mind. I'm his prophet. That fact alone is the only reason I live, the main reason why I should want to die. But I am afraid. Afraid of fear, afraid of pain, afraid of where I'll end up after this world. Where will I go if I have truly been cast aside by my God? But can I not at least act brave? But then, I wonder, to live or to die—which one is bravery? I don't know anymore. _I am your prophetess_ , I say, more as a reminder to myself than to him that…that I have a job to do. I cannot let Demise win. I cannot let Link be killed. I must do what I can. And then I can die. Or live. Depending on how things go. Depending on how brave or cowardly I really am.

His arms tighten. "That's right, you are. And don't you go forgetting that. I still haven't forgiven you for running off with that boy."

I keep my tone flat. "Link. His name is Link."

"Whatever!" he snaps, voice so sharp it makes me flinch. And then it falls quiet once more.

I hear the ticking of the clock in my head, wonder when my time will be up.

Ghirahim sighs again. "I need a pick-me-up. …Make spaghetti."

My brow knits at the oddness of the request. "Okay…"

More time passes, and he still doesn't get off me. I start panicking, heat and exhaustion from the mountain still spiraling in my mind—I close my eyes and still see the imprint of Scaldera, running at me, fire blazing in its jaw—luring me into thinking his motives are ulterior. If I don't act, he will.

"Desert."

He stirs slightly. "Hmm? Oh, no, thank you, darling. Just the spaghetti."

I blink. " _Lanayru_ Desert."

"Mmm?" He sounds…sleepy. He comes alive with a jerk. "Lanayru province? Is that where she'll be next?"

"…Yes," I say quietly, second-guessing the wisdom of…no, it has to be this way. It'll go as it should, and…and I'll make sure no one dies.

 _Or maybe you're just being an idealistic fool_ , I scold, my voice coming from the back of my mind. It is the she-wolf, disparaging the hopes of the ewe. _This isn't a game anymore…it hasn't been for a very long time._

Suddenly I am spun around and wrapped in a crushing hug, being swayed forwards and backwards by my captor's excitement.

"You darling, darling girl! I didn't even have to squeeze it out of you this time." His fingers knead my back; they feel like needles. "Good girl, good, good girl!"

I am already shocked by his touches, but it is his reaction that really throws me for a loop. Is he not disappointed? Shouldn't he _want_ to 'squeeze' the information out of me? Does he not revel in torture? Shut up, says a side of me. Shut up and be glad he hasn't done that yet! Don't bring it to his attention; just—just let him be a crazy fruitcake. Preferably a non-torturous one, thank you.

But my mind still wants to fathom the being that holds me, and it tries even while I am shaken and spun in his roller-coaster of a hug.

When two pale lips smack me on the temple, however, all thought grinds to a halt.

He stills too, suddenly. And then we are both like a picture taken, frozen in a moment of time.

My heartbeats pass by.

The chest compressed against mine is eerily silent and still, cold. Then, slowly, as if he's testing, he lowers his lips to my temple again, presses them there lightly. It feels like forever before he pulls away.

He releases and backs up from me, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes, looking at me like I'm some messed up equation, like he did the first day he saw me. And then that smug smile comes back full force. "You're an ugly little creature."

My expression, stuck in mute shock, falls into a scowl.

"Thanks," I say dryly.

His smile widens. "…But perhaps not so bad as I first thought."

My face moves into neutral, only the tiniest bit of astonishment showing through my eyes.

"Now," he flicks back his hair, which merely falls into place again. "Let's do something about those hideous wounds, shall we?"

My heart skips in fright, but then the tower door opens, and in walks Shii.

And suddenly I feel safer.

* * *

He leaves me in Shii's care. It is Shii who soaks strips of cloth in red potion and dabs my burns, my cuts, my abrasions.

We don't say anything to each other. We sit cross-legged on the stone floor in comfortable silence. But it is a silence I break when I remember something, something that makes my chest tighten just thinking about it. Though it shouldn't. We had no choice. Or better to say Link had no choice. They attacked us, they wouldn't stop, and I…I couldn't get them to understand.

"'I belong to Ghirahim.' How do you say it in the Lizalfos tongue?" My voice trembles as I ask it.

Shii sends me a suspicious yet quizzical look. " _Saah mish Ghirahim_."

"Saa…mich Ghirahim?"

"No, no. You must put more emphasis on the ' _sss_ ,' like you are hissing. It is in the tongue and here," Shii pats her neck, "in the back of the throat. Try again."

I do, and Shii speaks along, moving lip and tongue blatantly so I can mimic.

" _Saah mish Ghirahim_."

"Yes, good. Close enough."

"'If you touch me he will kill you.' How do you say that?"

Shii's eyes take on a far sharper sheen, and she replies hesitantly. " _Heich mals chitah oush saa_."

I repeat until approved. The language of the Lizalfos feels both like both a hiss and a cough. It puts extra stress on vowels like A's and I's and E's. It makes a beautiful, exotic language, I think, sounding both dangerous and enticing. It takes a frightening name like 'Ghirahim' and makes it even more so. _Saa-h mi-ch Ghir-a-heem._ The end of his name is stretched in their tongue, making it sound more like _heem_ , rather than the usual short _him_ that I'm used to. But then I wonder of other demon languages, wonder if his name truly is pronounced as it is in Hylian, or if it is meant to be pronounced as the Lizalfos do it.

Then I think: What of the Hylians that came before Skyloft? Did they learn to say that name? Or did they just learn to fear it?

"Now," Shii says, laying another strip of cloth over a burn on my shoulder, "tell me why you needed to know those words."

I hesitate, shrug. "I…had a bad run in with some Lizalfos. That's all."

"Hmm. Did not turn out well, did it?"

I stare off at the far wall, a faraway look clouding my eyes.

"Unfortunate," Shii says in her usual clipped tones. But then, uncertainly, she asks, "You…were not harmed?"

Surprise brings my stare back to her. She shifts uncomfortably, and she will not meet my eyes. I smile at her unpracticed concern. "I'm fine…but they weren't. I—I want to avoid that in the future. If I can."

Shii eyes soften exponentially, and for a moment she seems caught for words. In the end she offers a short hum of understanding, and moves on to the next task.

Which involves bubbles apparently.

I gawk at the foaming bucket, hearing the water sloshing gently within. A bright yellow sponge floats amidst the white froth.

"Wh-what is this?" I ask, voice quivering with hope.

Shii grunts. "What does it look like? Use it while it's warm, human." And then she leaves me to my privacy, the door clicking softly behind her.

I stare at the contents in the bucket. Can it really be? Warm, soapy water? A freaking _sponge_? I kneel before it and my fingers delve into the bubbles like they are precious diamonds, glimmering and shining on my skin. Tears nearly gather at my eyes. How long has it been since I've had an actual wash like this? Being dumped with cold water hardly suffices for getting one clean.

"Thank y—!" I start to say it, but belatedly realize Shii's already left. I'll tell her later.

Right now, I'm going to relish this gift.

* * *

The suds cleared away, I see the wavering reflection of a young woman looking back at me. I pause, lower my soaped hand from my forehead. The reflection does likewise. Her skin is marred with the pale scarlet blemish of healed burns. Her wild hair is temporarily tamed with the froth of soap, is limp and choppy, curled and frayed where it was charred. Her thin lip is split, red and chapped against the whitish tips of her teeth. Her nose is small and rounded, but narrow in a way, almost like a bird's beak. She wouldn't be too bad looking, if she were all well and healed. Pretty, even, depending on who you asked.

But the water sways, and in a fraction of a moment it shows another face.

Small eyes overshadowed by black rimmed glasses, a nose a bit too wide and blunt, a jaw too slim and too square at the same time. She is not burned, but still there are blemishes she can't get rid of no matter how many times a day she scrubs at her face. She is not ugly, perhaps, but she is most definitely not pretty either. But that doesn't matter.

Because she's me. The real me.

She is gone with the flash of the water. Gone. And never to be seen again. Except for within the frames of pictures, scattered in an empty home back in a world far, far away. Nothing more than a memory to those she called family. Nothing more than a name carved into stone.

Shaking fingers, the pale skin stretched over fine bone, raise up to trace the skin that is naturally unblemished, touches a face that is by far prettier…but not mine. How many nights have I spent, waking in fright, clawing at the mask I cannot take off? If I could peel the skin off my face, if I could unbury the person I used to be…that I still am, in many, many ways…I would. I would trade this naturally clear skin, this little smile, this thin brow—all of it, if it meant being me again. If it meant being home again.

I want to look in the mirror and see _me_. Is that so wrong?

I receive no answer from above. I never have.

In the silence of abandonment I delve back into the bucket, and with bitterness scrub at the face that should have never been mine.

* * *

I guess it was the homesickness inspiring actual sickness. Or maybe it was the volcanic ashes, or the gases from inside the mountain that brought a fever to my body and a wheezing cough that drained every ounce of energy I had.

I guess I should consider myself lucky. Volcanic gases from the Knowing Realm can kill a person with just a couple gulps of it. Not so for Eldin Volcano, obviously.

I guess… Tch, I guess a lot of things. It might help if I actually knew—! Oh, good. Here comes another fit.

The hacking coughs echo in the round chamber, beating on the walls, until they escape out the silent, ever vigil window, always breathing in with its chilly breezes and gusts. I am curled on the floor, prickly wool blanket wrapped as far as it will go, until I am like a burrito with my face and feet sticking out. My toes are numb, my nose is numb. I wiggle them, trying to return feeling.

Three-toed, scaly feet pad to me. When—when did she even come in the door?

A rough palm sweeps across my forehead. And then she is padding out of the room, feet swift.

I can't keep awake long enough to figure out what she's up to.

Darkness. A dream of lying on my plush bed, the sunlight drifting in through the big square window, the gleam of city towers just outside, of concrete and glass and steel. Of blue sky and noisy people. A little wet nose touches my elbow, a black and white cat curled at my side, snuggling deeper into the velvety blanket. Another rests curled on the pillow beside mine, tabby gray on the blue cloth. Their purring is like a hum in my ears, constant, pleasant, pulling me deeper into my afternoon nap.

 _Everything's okay. Everything's…_

"What is that horrendous noise?" A sharp voice cuts into the blare of racking coughs.

"She is sick, my lord."

"So I hear, Shii! What are you doing about it?"

I am shaken gently, back and forth. I roll with it limply. "Sit up, human," comes Shii's urgent whisper.

I do so, because of her tone, because of who is in the room with us. I quiver with the strain, wince as aching muscles scream protest, shiver as air floats into previously closed off spaces. My lungs convulse with another set of coughs.

Ghirahim's voice slices through the noise. "How quickly do humans heal? What does she need? Did you give her a potion? Little bird, will you _cease_ that racket! Well? Don't just stand there, you stupid lizard. _Do something, Shii_!"

A cork pops, and a bottle of red potion dumps out on my head. The red liquid runs rivers through my hair and down my back. I sputter at the droplets that splash my face.

My expression flattens entirely. "…Good job, guys. Good job."

The clunk of the glass bottle dropping on my head resounds through the stone room.

I lay down shivering, not caring or hearing anymore what they have to say. I wake up in fragments. I sleep in fitful darkness. I dream of my plush bed again.

At one point I wake up in furs. My heart soars in the brief moment of delirium most have upon leaving sleep, believe I'm really home, tucked under the covers. But it is not so. The scratchy wool is gone and I am swaddled instead in swaths of soft reddish fur. What animal did this hide belong to? I wonder, but get no answer.

I suppose I should be surprised when meat is added to my diet, served in a broth with vegetables. I'm not.

It's hot now, so hot. As bad as the volcano—no, worse. I kick the furs off, only to wake with them pulled back over me.

"Stop—stop doin' that, Shii! I'm—it's…hot!"

But the room is empty when I say it.

Fever dreams pervade my mind. I am in Skyloft again, in Gaepora's office because I did something. It's always something I do—or don't do.

"Thanks for taking the time to talk with me, I mean, do we ever have a social visit?" I hiss at him, glare as cutting as I can make it.

He stands at his desk, arms poised behind his back, ever the large, contemplating owl. He says nothing.

I grip the sides of the chair I'm seated in. It's oddly soft, like fur, and not like a chair at all. "I mean, my gosh. Can, can we not just sit and have some chicken nuggets? Oh, that's right, you dickwads don't have chicken! I understand why no cows, but chickens? Come on! We could keep a little flock. Just—just throw some corn at them. Do—do we have corn? I can't…remember…"

The large orange figure of Gaepora blurs, blurs until a person is barely discernable. The blur, like mists behind a veil, shift and a slimmer figure, just as tall if not taller, takes shape. Orange fades out to white, bleeds into crimson.

"Seriously, why—why have I never seen a single Cucco on Skyloft? They're birds! Birds! Sure they're flightless and dumb, but they're _birds_! Are they not good enough for you? Are they not allowed in the cloud club? Go get one! What? You—you scared of the surface? I'll go then; I'm not scared of going below the clouds. I'll—I'll go… I'll go right now, I'll jump off the frakin' edge! I hate this floating rock!"

The dream is cut off at some point. I can't remember where.

When Shii brings me another serving, there is different meat, different broth. Lighter than the swarthy brown of the vegetable and red meat soup. Familiar bits of white meat wait within. When the taste hits my tongue, I actually cry.

"What is it, human?" Shii moves closer, a glint of panic hidden in her glare.

"I—I can't—I can't even—h _urrrrgghh!_ "

Shii backs away.

Fever dreams float in every corner of my mind.

What…what is that? Who is that?

My mother, auburn hair catching fire in the soft glow of the lamp. Her dark eyes watch me silently. She sits on my bedside, her cool fingers brushing the hair from my burning forehead. Yes, that's right. This…this is what she used to do. When I was sick, suddenly I became more important than her job. I wish I was sick more often.

A cool hand upon my burning skin, cold fingers grazing at my temple, brushing at the flyaway hairs.

A cold hand on a burning forehead. Is that the most I can remember of my mother?

She is kneeling by me, by the furs piled beneath me on the stone floor. She pulls up the fur, covers me to my chin. She smooths my hair, runs the back of her fingers along my cheeks.

I blink my eyes, squint. Try to see her in the darkness of the tower. But my vision is blurry with tears. I cannot see but her shape. She is pale, as she has always been. But now that paleness extends to her hair. A ghost. A spirit that has traversed worlds just to see me again. I cannot help but smile at her, a happy, tired smile that holds no reserves of the self-consciousness it usually does. " _Stay,_ " I rasp to her in English, bordering on pleading. " _Stay with m-me._ "

"Fight," she tells me, and her voice is sharp. A little too sharp, a little too deep. "Fight it."

" _M-Mom…_ " I whisper, before my consciousness fades again.

She isn't there when I wake. I don't think she ever was.

* * *

Eventually my fever recedes. Eventually I am able to sit up without quaking. Eventually I am able to stand and walk and run.

Is it just me, or is Shii smiling more often now? It twitches at her snout like it isn't sure how to place itself. She never smiled that much to begin with…

"Essil said she will make more of the pheasant soup you like. That is reason enough to face the day with strength, I think."

"Pheasant?"

"Yes, pheasant. Out of the blue one day my lord demanded Essil prepare some. Don't you remember? You were so…" Shii cringes. "…overjoyed that you 'couldn't even' speak properly."

"Oh…"

I feel lighter after that, and the residue of my cough goes away completely a day later. Everything seems back to normal. Well, concerning my health, at least.

Ghirahim comes up every now and then. He says nothing, oddly enough. He just eyes me occasionally while walking slow, pacing circles around the room, discerning gaze traveling over what seems like each and every stone. And then he just leaves.

One time he comes up to me, places fingers cold as ice to my forehead. I look at him, confused. But he just smiles and walks away. I don't know if I like that smile. There was a hint of conceit in it, to be sure, though different from his usual haughtiness. It was almost amused, that smile, like he knew a secret I did not.

I start thinking of my mother again, in the long silences between visits from my captors. The thought of her, the want of her, drags me back down. What I wouldn't give to see her again, just one more time…even if she was just a traveling spirit, leaving her body in her dreams, visiting with me for a little while, just a little while, before returning to her body back in that other world.

How old is my mother now, anyway? Has she gone gray? Maybe that's why her hair held no color. I fall asleep to these thoughts.

I open my eyes to dim light, thunder rumbling in the distance.

I'm better now, so I guess Ghirahim takes it as an invitation.

The banging door joins the chorus of thunder.

He spreads his arms like he's just jumped out from a stage curtain. "Get up, little bird! It's time to play."

"…I'm not playing." My voice is hallow, my eyes glazed. My heart still aches for my mother.

He summons the black sword.

"Go ahead," I whisper, not moving. "Have your fun."

He rushes at me, swipes the blade before my face, the tip centimeters from the bridge of my nose. My hair billows back in the wind.

The fingers of his free hand twitch, curl and uncurl rapidly. He swipes again, and again there is only a flash of black, a breeze in my hair. No pain, no cut.

Still I sit, cross-legged, unmoving, back hunched and head drooped.

He lets out a growl and his foot connects with my shoulder, sending me sprawling on my back.

"Get up!" he shouts.

I do not.

"It's not fun if you don't fight back!"

Funny. It almost sounds like he's whining.

I sit up like an old person rising from a nap. "So sorry, sir," I say with faux regality, "But I'm afraid I cannot entertain you this evening."

His glare is as cutting as his blade. "It's morning."

I look to the left wall, look quickly to the right. "Hey, where'd that clock go? Oh, wait…there wasn't one."

He huffs, stalks circles around me, poison stare never straying. "What is it you need? Potion? Food? Water?"

"Alone," I drone. "I need to be alone."

The tip of the black blade comes to rest under my chin, tilts up my face. Dark, dark eyes peer down at me inscrutably.

"You've been alone for quite long enough, I think."

I cannot stop the bitter smile from spreading over my face. Those words would be comforting coming from anyone but him.

The blade stays for a moment longer before it dissipates into dark diamonds, shrinking away into nothing. I stare into the stone floor, waiting for him to grow bored and leave.

White and red lower down in my peripheral. He sits next to me, mimics my cross-leg position. The curtain of white hair hides his face from view.

I don't know how long we sit like that, side by side. He is close—too close. His red cloak brushes against my arm with every breath he takes. The contact is both unnerving and soothing; nerves fray at the seams, only to be stitched back together, over and over.

And it's driving me insane.

I slam my arm out in an attempted push. He sways but a little and is quick to return the gesture. I topple over. I roll back up like one of those rounded kids' dolls that can't be knocked down, and ram my shoulder into him. Again, he only sways, again he shoves me over. Back and forth, back and forth this goes until he pushes me so hard I slide across the room. I charge him like a bull, crash all my weight into him. He almost bowls over, almost touches the floor, and I think I've won. But then I catch a glance of his secret smirk, flashed as his hair swings.

He's the one who won, I realize. He wanted a game, and he got one.

He tosses his head and no longer deigns to hide his smile.

"Keep fighting, little bird." He stands and strides to the door, and then he whirls, cloak and hair fanning out, giving me a glimpse of the black diamond marked under his left eye. "This world is so much more interesting with you in it."

The door closes with a quiet click, and I am left sitting on the floor of the cold tower, shell-shocked.

* * *

 **A/N: ...Just me attempting to integrate pronunciation differences. Apparently the end of Ghirahim's name is canonically pronounced 'Heem'. At least that's what Hyrule Warriors told me.**

 **The Lizalfos tongue is an entirely made up language. Any resemblance to any real languages is entirely coincidental. I have to say that in case I accidentally put in a dirty word.  
**

 **I hope you liked the chapter despite its shortcomings. Thank you for reading and, as always, I appreciate your thoughts.**


	13. remembering fear

**A/N: Thank you Moon ninja Luna, Mokki Takashi, PokemonTrainer4700, Voidlash, Lily, Onoskelis, Alter Ego Bob, Ambiguous Cake, and YlvaWolf for the reviews and encouragement last chapter. I hadn't planned to post this chapter until later in the week, but I was able to get it done early! I hope you like it.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 13**

Distrust. Wariness. Fear. These things should always be at the edges of my mind, should always hold weight in my considerations. But one day I wake up with a jolt, fear creeping up my spine, spreading through me like whips of lightning. Realization crests after a dream of comfort and warmth—two feelings that have no place among the enemy. I should have been wary from the very beginning. But I never gave thought to it, didn't think I, of all people, could possibly…

I didn't think, with all my knowledge, I could fall into _that_ trap.

I smile with Shii, I giggle with Essil. I curl up in my furs at night and feel no fear. Because Shii watches over me. I whisper to her in the darkness when I can't sleep, she whispers back in soothing tones. I am…I am lulled to sleep by her voice.

I feel safe.

When did I stop being afraid? When did I become friendly with the enemy? She is my _captor_! Though she merely follows orders, she is still my warden, and I her prisoner. How could I…? How could I have let her under my guard?

 _Get out!_ a voice roars deep within me. _Get! Out!_

I do. I am able to do so because not only has Shii gotten under my guard, but I have gotten under hers. She left the door unlocked, unchecked.

I rush down never-ending halls and twisting turns, the writhing shadows of the torchlights screaming at me, reaching out to grab me. Statues of unknown beasts snarl down at me in their forever frozen rage. I run from them, run from shadows and stone. But really I run more from myself, and from the feelings I should have never let form.

 _They're not your friends, they're not your friends…_

The shadows are moving.

The hissing, cough-like shouts of the Lizalfos can be heard from every direction, echoing down every corridor. They are yelling to each other, calling out orders, calling for aid. I run faster, boots clicking until I pull them off, stumbling because I keep moving, and carry them. My bare feet get me going silently.

The shadows are getting closer. They move in the shapes of towering dragons and crawling lizards.

I duck and hide behind one of the snarling beast statues. I hold my breath and count the beats of my heart. …Too fast to count them all.

They dash past, a cluster of them. A couple stragglers hesitate by the statue where I hide. They are like a pack of raptors sniffing and tasting the air. I pray they cannot hear the pounding in my chest.

I release my breath slowly, disbelief giving way to respite when they move on, running down the halls after their comrades.

And then a hand grabs me, and I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. I am spun and yanked around to face blazing yellow eyes.

"Are you trying to get me killed?!" Shii hisses. "Do you have any idea what my lord would do if I lost you? My head! It would be my head!"

I clutch my boots to my chest like they are shields. "I…I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Shii lurches, needle fangs bared in my face. "Sorry doesn't stop my head from rolling!"

In my panic I did not think of the consequences. I did not want to. She is my warden. Not my friend.

Shii drags me back up to the tower, claws digging painfully into my shoulder. She throws me into the barren room and slams the door shut, a loud _click!_ resonating. I return to my furs, sit there in painful silence.

What's wrong with me? Do I not care about Shii? It is the ewe that cries it. It is the she-wolf that lowers her head and trudges on despite her regretful heart. Maybe it's the stress of it all, the wrongness of the entire situation. I keep telling myself what I must do, but now that fear has restarted, it refuses to ebb. This wouldn't be an issue if only I was at the side of the hero, and not stuck keeping an eye on an embodiment of evil. But I wasn't allowed to choose.

I curl up my knees and bury my face in my legs. Hot pressure builds up in my eyes, and I squeeze them shut, refusing to let tears leak. This isn't how it was supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be here. Not in this tower, and not in this world. I want my family back. I want my mother. But she is gone with the rest of them. I thought her spirit had come to see me, but it was a lie of the fever. It wasn't my mother I smiled at. It wasn't my mother who I begged to stay at my side. It was Ghirahim.

 _Pale hair… Fingers of ice on my burning forehead… A sharp voice telling me to fight… Not my mother…_

I curl in tighter on myself. What's going to happen to me? What trickery will my mind succumb to? How could I have seen Ghirahim as my mother?

 _Will I stop fearing him next? Will I wholly and truthfully begin to call him 'Master'?_

I can't let it happen.

When the Lizalfos switch guard duty, I try again. I call for help, wait for the new Lizalfos to enter. Feebly, I ask her for water, and then clutch my middle and fall to the floor, squirming and crying. The Lizalfos rushes out, slamming the door behind her. There is no click of a lock. But instead of running out, I wait like a good girl. When the Lizalfos returns with water, I take it gratefully, drink it all, and curl up to 'sleep'. The Lizalfos backs out quietly.

She is either appeased by my show of weakness, or she isn't one of the brighter ones. There is no click of a lock this time either, and when I hear the scuffle of her scaled feet, leaving to switch duties once again, I take my chance.

I am quieter this time, leave my boots with my furs, and it takes longer for them to even realize I'm gone. I keep my panic under wraps this time around, turn a shrewd eye on my surroundings, try to mark my way by the statues and differentiating stone of the corridors.

I avoid the shadows when they move. I ignore the cry of the ewe. I must be the wolf. I…don't know what else to do. I don't wanna sit in that tower anymore. I don't want to just sit compliant and let my mind be warped by emotional fallacies.

It's just…far too much like…

 _That other tower…where nobody was ever home._

I clamp the thought off. I can't go down that road now.

Traversing the castle is like meeting dusk and dawn, going from dark and dreary in some parts to light and airy in others. I come from a hall of nearly black stone, accented with teeth shining metallically at both the base and crown of the walls, and drift into a hall of beige stone, decorated with gold trimmings in the shape of wind spirals. I go from no windows to a hall lined with them, stained glass shining dimly with what little light there is outside. Geometric patterns line the glass. Purple octagons, red triangles, green rectangles, spirals and waves, lines and curves. Glimmering glass, casting their colored lights on the opposite wall.

The light gets brighter. There are torches now too, dispelling any shadow there might have been.

There are mirrors, reflecting, making the inside seem as bright as a sunny Skyloft day.

My breath is caught in my throat. Ancient writings I cannot read are etched in the stone, glow as I get closer, fade as I move farther. The color they glow is in accordance with the colors of the stained glass lining opposite of them.

"Enjoying your tour, darling?"

I must leap six feet in the air; that's what it feels like my heart does. But no, my feet are still planted firmly on the floor. My joints feel stiff as I turn to face him.

Ghirahim stands at the end of the hall, bright white in the glow. He's wearing that smug smile, eyes half-lidded, brow raised as if he's expecting something.

Then I realize he asked me a question. Is…is he actually expecting me to answer?

"Not going to my room!" I bark out like some temperamental child, before turning on my heel and bolting.

It's a dumb decision, I realized it before I even started running. But my legs are already working and it's too late now.

His laughter rings out through the grand hallway. "Oh, I _wondered_ when you would try to run!"

I'm surprised when he doesn't catch me right away. The echoes of diamond fractals sound all around me. He teleports, to the left, to the right, above, behind, making me pivot each time in avoidance. His laughter tangles in.

Suddenly I'm slammed against the wall face first, held there by the hand at the nape of my neck and the hips pressed to my backside. I fight for all of three seconds, ceasing when he excitedly whispers, "Struggle, darling, struggle!"

And then I am as still and quiet as the light reflecting off the ancient stone etchings. And I smile to myself, despite the quivering in my limbs, because I won't give him what he wants, and because now, with my heart beating wildly, I know…

I'll never stop fearing him.

* * *

Shii won't even leave me alone on the toilet anymore. The door quakes as she raps violently on it. "You better still be in there!"

I finish my business, frowning. "Oh what am I going to do, Shii? Escape through the pipes? Bust through the stone walls like the freaking _Kool-Aid Guy_?! _OH YEAH_!"

The knob rattles, the door shakes, and I slam my feet against the wood, barring it from opening just in the nick of time.

"I was frickin' kidding!"

Shii rams into the door, and my legs nearly buckle from the shock.

"I'm serious!" My voice takes a high note of desperation. The last thing I want is to be dragged off the toilet—talk about humiliating! "I'm not going anywhere—just chill out! Stop that! I said _stop!_ "

The door ceases its pounding pressure. It goes silent. Too quickly, too suddenly.

I finish up quickly, crack the door open and peer out. The hall is empty. I look left and right, but there is no sign of her.

What the heck? Why would she just up and disappear?

Regardless, I take the chance when I have it. I run…

And I quickly learn that's what he wanted.

He lets me catch glimpses of him. He lets me hear the echoes of his teleportation. And when all is quiet, he lets me fester in trepidation, taking corners and turns at random in my haste. The panic of the ewe, while the she-wolf howls for me to turn and fight. When the blare of fear calms, I consider it, only to realize I have no weapon. Where's the kitchen again? There are knives in the kitchen.

Too many halls, too many turns. I can't find my way, so I try hiding instead.

But there's no hiding from him. I should know that better than anyone. He can sense auras, remember, stupid? I say to myself. Of course he drags me out by my hair and laughs triumphantly, eyes gleaming, tongue licking his lower lip.

He lets go of me, smiles and flips his hair, gesturing coyly with his chin. He lets me run past him, he lets me try again. It's a game to him. Hide and seek.

But I can't hide, only run. Run, run, run until I can't feel my legs and my lungs threaten to blow out. He can sense my aura. How am I supposed to hide from that? I remember something Link said, out in front of the Earth Temple. Wait here, he said. Hide. I'll be back for you. I don't think either of us realized the stupidity of those words until later.

There's no hiding from something that can sense your very life force, or whatever 'auras' are.

But then I remember something, something Ghirahim himself said. _Do you have any idea how tedious it is to find a bug in a temple that size? Hmm? How can your aura be large as the goddess's and then be smaller than an insect's in the next?_

Smaller than an insect's… How did I do that? As I run, stumbling more and more with growing fatigue, I try to think of when it could have happened. Obviously my aura was big when I was out front of the temple, that's why he never came out to look for me. He knew I was there. It's when I 'disappeared' inside the temple that I need to wonder about. What was it? What changed?

I don't figure it out in time. He gets me, and I cannot even scream when he does.

* * *

We don't talk much anymore, Shii and me… I suppose that's what I should expect. And it's what I should want. It doesn't make it hurt any less. But it's how it should be, isn't it? Captor and captive aren't supposed to chat like buddies. And yet…I find myself wondering if maybe I should've let myself live on in the delusion. It would've been easier that way.

Shii looks at me like she's disgusted, betrayed. The feeling gets worse, tightens like a coiling snake.

It's not my proudest moment when I break down and cry, telling her I'm sorry like a blabbering idiot.

She scoffs and crosses her arms, looks pointedly away.

I regain control of myself and keep my eyes on the floor. She doesn't talk to me anymore—no one does, and once again it is just me and the ticking clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock, somewhere deep in my head. I start rocking back and forth to take my mind off it.

Darkness and dim light. It is the next day when Shii plops a bucket of soapy water in front of me. I raise my head, glare through the mess of my hair with reddened, sore eyes. It is the only way I can shield the hope brimming in them.

"You smell," is all she says. But perhaps there is a softening in her glower. I cannot tell, she turns her head away too quickly and marches back to the door.

My reflection looks back at me.

Again I study my face. The red burns are all but gone. Little pinkish marks, barely discernable, are all that remain in testament to the wounds I bore. Soon even those will be gone. Maybe in the next day. I touch the skin, see flashes of the face that used to be. I shouldn't complain really. It's been like this for two decades. You'd think I'd get over it. But I haven't. And I don't. I just…don't.

But there is solace wavering there in the water. Hair and eye color are about the same, perhaps a shade or two lighter, not much. Same pastel skin, hues of pink at the nose and ears… Reminds me of cold winter walks in the city, bundled in a parka, hands stuffed in pockets, back against the snow blowing in the wind.

My hand reaches up and traces my ears—probably the biggest solace of them all.

 _To have these human ears like yours, and not the pointed ones of those strangers…_ I smile, my reflection smiling back for the first time in this life. _What would you say if you could see me now?_

 _"Dummy…just jump out the window and stick it to them. They can't pull prophecies from the dead." That's what you'd say, isn't it?_

I laugh at your imagined voice. Then I imagine you're here next to me, laughing with me, laughing at the entire situation because, because it's just so ridiculous, isn't it?

"Little bird…"

My head jerks up.

Ghirahim stands in the room. I didn't even hear the door open. Maybe he teleported in, but why didn't I hear that either? He regards me quietly for a few moments. Then, "I know your appearance is laughable, but I didn't think it was _that_ laughable." There is a suspicious glint in his dark eyes, suspicious and…frightening.

The feral smile comes out before I can think to stop it. Only the expression is like a half-moon, only half complete. Teeth bared, yes, but my eyes are nowhere near wild. They are glazed with nothingness instead. And I think it unsettles him for a second. Just a split second, where his eyes are narrowed to slits.

Then his smug smile is back and his arrogant air chases away any thought I may have had towards his discomfort. "I have a present for you, darling."

"Oh…goody." My voice is dull, does not match the feral smile.

Cold fingers on my face, gripping my chin. He makes me look him in the eye. "Whatever slump you're in, I want you to pull yourself out of it. Now."

I don't know why those words make me so angry, why they have my blood boiling and my teeth seething. I lunge to my feet and slam both my palms into his chest, stubbing my toe on the bucket in the process, and it creaks as it skids on the floor.

I must be an idiot, I must be a blind fool, because my actions do nothing. Nothing but make him snarl and snatch my wrists in bruising grips. The pain snaps into me, makes me freeze up and tremble. But my teeth remain bared. My eyes widen with glaring fire. White fire. White, white, at the edges of my vision.

"Kya!" The command is in his tone, an edge of warning.

And then it stops. It stops because I feel it building up in my eyes. No, no, _nonono_! Don't cry, don't cry! Not in front of him, _not in front of him, please, please!_

I slam my eyes shut, but it cuts a path down my cheek regardless, soft and warm. I grimace at my failure, hang my head, try to yank my arms from his hands. But I cannot even use the word 'yank' to describe it. That would imply I am able to move my arms at least an inch. His stilling hold does not allow for even a centimeter. I droop, defeated, and my forehead finds its way to the red velvet covering his chest.

He transfers my wrists to one hand. His hands may be slender, slightly feminine, especially with those dainty gloves, but are still large enough, strong enough, to hold both wrists of mine as if they are mere bird bones in comparison. His other arm comes around my shoulders, and he holds me to him, traps me in stillness. "Breathe," he says, and only then do I realize I'm not. His tone takes on a roughness. "I said _breathe_."

I gasp in, and he bends closer to me, corner of his mouth pressing to my temple. He brushes closer still, curtain of hair sliding until his rounded ear is touching mine. The touch, the connection of a humanity that I am familiar with, that I miss all too much, brings down an all-encompassing calm over me, and my breaths slow, even out.

"…Are you done with your little tantrum?" His voice is quiet, the usual sharpness of it dulled.

When I give a groan in response, he takes it as an affirmative.

He pulls back, smiles down at me. "Mmm, good! Now, remember when—"

 _I said you'd deafen yourself with the sound of your own screams?_ plays in my head, and I can't help but cringe down.

"—I said I'd deal with your misfit wandering? Well, you've gotten very good at wandering lately, so I thought now would be the best time to give you this."

Before I can question or even look up, he lets go of my wrists and slaps something around my neck. It clicks solidly in place. I stumble away and try to look down, and my fingers hook into something cold and metallic. "What the—?! What?"

I dive to my knees, look into the water in the bucket.

Gold circles my neck and a red diamond accented by a glittering white spray of tiny crystals rests at my throat. The shining band is no wider than my index finger, the jewel no larger than the nail of my thumb, but even so it is eye-catching, the white crystals like far off stars surrounding a red sun, a flash of color that demands the attention of any who look my way.

I try pulling at it, I try finding its clasp, but it is somehow a solid piece all the way around. "What—what—Get it off!"

Ghirahim runs his hand over his hair. "Pull at it all you like. It's there to stay. What's wrong?" he coos, smile widening. "Don't you like your new collar?"

I glare and curl my lip. "Collar? I'm not your dog!"

"Of course not," he says, spreading his arms out to me as if preparing for an embrace, "you're my little bird!"

I scramble away, ever tugging at the band. "What's it for? Why'd you put it on me?"

"You'll see, darling." He smiles, eyes glinting. "You'll see."

* * *

 **A/N: They say fear is an important survival mechanism. I wonder how long Kya will hold onto hers.  
**


	14. trust

**A/N: Thank you** **Moon ninja Luna, Ambiguous Cake, Mokki Takashi, PokemonTrainer4700, Voidlash, Alter Ego Bob, Onoskelis, Bluebadger, mun3litKnight, and Wingdings13 for reviewing last chapter. I can't believe we made it to 100 reviews! *Throws confetti* Thank you all so much for your kindness and support!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 14**

The golden choker tingles around my neck. He has me pressed face-first to the wall, bent over me, his hand at my nape, pushing at the cold, smooth metal that lies snugly clasped there. I fight to keep my breathing calm, steady, in and out. It's all right, I tell myself. It's okay. Don't struggle, it's what he wants. Don't move, because you really don't want that part of you rubbing against him.

My breath quivers at the thought.

It's okay, it's okay! I remind. He's totally gay and you're not a boy. He won't touch you like that. You're safe.

Thank heaven for my female parts.

And yet he presses closer, breath hot on my neck. His other hand twitches where it pins my wrist to the wall, his grip varying in painful intensities, as if he is constantly reminding himself not too tight, or my bones will be crushed. His cloak is gone, lost somewhere along the chase, and skin as smooth and cool as a river contradicts the warm puffs of air at my ear. He moves ever so slightly, but it feels like more. More, because of the way the white bodysuit's diamond cut-outs allow skin to glide, and I shudder despite myself when the exposed flesh of my arms meets his unhindered.

The shadows of torches flicker in the dim corridor. He curls around me, and his lips are at my temple again. A silvery scent washes off him, cool and faint like snow.

I try to keep from shivering. "Get off me."

Soft lips move against my temple. "Say the magic words…"

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench the fist trapped between my body and the wall, refuse to give in any more than I have. "No!" I bark out. And then, in English: " _Bite me!_ "

His interest is immediately caught. The grip on my nape tightens. "What does that mean?" he whispers, a hint of wondrous excitement laced in his tone.

"Bite"—I jerk my head—"Me!"

My curdled scream is quick to follow, echoing down the halls like a frightened ghost. Teeth that feel cold and hot all at the same time slowly extract from the junction between my neck and shoulder, and a long tongue flits over the resulting punctures. He swallows the red down, emits a soft moan in the back of his throat. I buck against him, no longer caring of the warnings I'd given myself. I snarl and screech and fight with all strength I can muster.

He doesn't budge. In fact, I think he's smiling.

I'm about to froth at the mouth, words tumbling out unbidden in my native tongue. " _Sonofabitch! Get off me! Get! Off! Me!_ "

" _Get_ ," he repeats English, " _away from me_?" Reverts to Hylian at: "Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes, yes—please!" I loathe to say it, but I must.

His lips, indeed smiling, move against my ear. "Who am I?"

I grit my teeth. "Master, _please_!"

Just like that he releases me, and I fly down the hall like a rabbit on the loose. I run from the wolf. I play his game, his one-sided game, because it's not really a game when there's no equal chance of winning.

Not yet anyway.

I run the scenario from the mountain through my head. I come to the conclusion that I must mimic whatever I was doing inside the temple, when my aura went silent. I run, I hide. I think of the events that transpired in Eldin, how I was, what I felt. I was hot, sweaty, exhausted. I felt feeble, weepy, listless.

I remember the reason why.

Death everywhere, and it felt unfair. They were no match for the hero. They were no longer faceless drones only seeking to do evil. They were doing what they had to, to survive. Follow your orders or be cut down by the one who commands you.

I count the seconds to when Ghirahim catches me. One, two… Five… Ten… He usually gets me around the fifteen second mark. When it passes, my dampened spirit lifts, but I rein it in, remember the blood spilling in the temple. The way Link took their tails… Thirty. Forty. When I reach a whole minute, my eyes widen in astonishment. I've never made it this far before. I clutch my knees tighter, hunch closer to the statue, a snarling wolf-like beast molded from black iron. Two minutes, three… Can he actually not find me?

The choker on my neck goes from tingling to pricking, from itching to burning. I tug roughly at it, but it does not stop the feel of pins and needles.

A hand grabs my arm; a scream catches in my throat. He pulls me out into the open where I am immediately slammed to the wall, my back taking the brunt of the force. Fingers splay through my hair, yank it so I am forced to look up into glinting dark eyes. I see his irritation, I see his confusion, and it is then I know I was successful with 'flattening' my aura.

The manic smile spreads my lips, shows my teeth. His burning glare does little to lessen it.

But then he's the one smiling. Smiling, because I am in his grasp. Smiling, as if he is the one who has secretly won.

* * *

If it's not hide and seek, then it is tag. It is the little victories that matter to me, the small triumphs, like hiding for three whole minutes, or lashing out with a dagger and tagging the mark. When I regain my edge, I run with it, keep it close. A calm mind, filtering through knowledge of the unknown versus the known. It is the only advantage I have over him, and I'll keep it. Keep him in the dark; let him see only what I want him to see.

I told him of the desert. But I will not tell him of the Temple of Time, or what is to transpire there. I will not tell him of the mining facility or of Link. I only said I saw Zelda, walking through swirling sands and blistering wind, golden hair tangled and white dress aflutter.

"She's walking into the sun," I said. And then I was silent.

He believes me with far too much ease, with a roll of his shoulders, and a quirk of his lip. Then it is back to the game, the game of strike and dodge. It startles me, how he doesn't question further or threaten immense pain for the penalty of lies. He simply takes what I say and moves on, like nothing could be wrong.

He slashes out with the black blade, this time a sabre with a red jewel on its hilt. I slide under with just a centimeter between it and my nose. I whirl around and fling the Lizalfos dagger. It clangs off his sword with reflected ease, and I must dash to retrieve it before he does.

I skirt about him, lashing out, zipping in and out of range, rolling under and away. Another swipe of his blade sends his scent in the resulting waft, and I try to remember if he always smelled that way. Silvery and cold, like snow freshly fallen in the precipice of winter, or of ice tasted on the wind long before a drop falls, riding in the dark clouds far on the horizon.

I narrow my eyes and watch him. Has he always moved like that? With the sinewy grace of a cat, delicate yet powerful all at the same time. When has he been anything but gaudy? Where did this subtly come from? It is in the faint flex of muscle beneath colorless skin, in the turn of his wrist, the direction of his feet.

His tranquil smile widens, and his eyes lower to a pleased half-mast. "I know I'm a marvelous sight to behold, darling, but do try not to be too distracted."

My wandering eyes snap to his face. "I wasn't— _mmph_!"

I slam face down to the floor, the teleporting demon lord sprawled on my back. He covers me, one hand trapping my wrist, his other arm circling my neck in an all too familiar choke hold. "You were saying?"

"…Not distracted," I mumble.

His laugh rumbles into me, has me shuddering from the feel of it. The dagger is pried from my free hand and tossed to the other side of the room, unreachable, unusable. "Now tell me I didn't see it coming," he whispers, and I can say nothing in response.

I wait. In this moment it is the only thing I can do. I wait, and I think. No weapon in reach, same choke hold I barely got out of last time. He isn't going to make me say 'please' again, is he? Oh, that's probably it. But first he'll gloat, no doubt about that.

But then it is silent, silent except for the glassless window's quiet breathing intermingling with our own. He is a weight on top of me, solid and real. I wonder if he can feel my heart beating through my back and into his hallow, pulseless chest. I wonder if it makes him feel like he has one of his own. I mentally laugh at the thought not a second later. Of course not.

"So soft," he murmurs into my hair, "and so warm, aren't you, little bird."

"And you're hard and cold," I grit out, trying a failing to push up his weight.

"Oh, darling…" He chuckles softly. "You could try warming me if you like, though I make no promises of softening." And then he whispers, " _Only hardening_."

My mind flips to the image of his final form, dark diamond skin, glimmering white patterns, white moon eyes…the problem being that's not where it went first. My face is already hot with strain, and now it burns at the implied innuendo.

I hiss through my teeth, try once again to buck him off me. I turn head, attempt to bite, but it seems none of my previous tricks will work. He simply pulls out of reach. I glare up into his face, into raven-wing shadow and wintery lips, smiling so amusedly at my struggle.

In a fit I claw for his face with my free hand, nails slipping uselessly from pale diamond skin. But when fingertip touches wisps of snowy hair, I freeze.

"Something tells me," I whisper roughly, "you will go into a psychotic rage if I mess with your hair."

He burrows right down to my ear. "That 'something' would be absolutely correct," he whispers back.

"Thought so." I continue the hush-hush. "I'll just go for your eyes then."

"You can try."

I do. And it'd be a lie if I said I didn't have a little fun doing so. But the she-wolf's violent glee only lasts until the ewe is set out to roam the corridors.

I last far beyond five minutes before he catches me, and am far too pleased with the fact to offer any kind of resistance beyond huffy indignance. He has me trapped in what oddly looks like a hug, his arms tight around me. My face is once again smooshed to that red cape, but this time my hand clings to a blood-fang flap of it. The silky texture is cool between my fingers. I pull my head back, the top of which softly clinks the silver chain hooked onto two gold buttons near the throat of his cape. The finer detailing of his attire comes into focus. The golden rhombus patterning on the inside of the cloak, and inlaid in the flare of the mantel, truly looks like gold with the sheen it casts.

Then I catch sight of what's beneath it.

I try to keep my eyes from those diamond-shaped cut-outs, from sleek skin and leanly sculpted muscle, and instead focus on the large red diamond sitting on his hip, fastened there by a golden sash. The bright red jewel looks exactly like the one at my neck, excluding size difference.

I hear the smile in his voice. "You're so obviously looking."

I stiffen, then scrunch my nose. "Only because you're wearing the most show-offy thing ever." Quickly, so there can be no mistake as to what I was inspecting, I throw in, "I can't make sense of your outfit."

His hand finds its way into my hair, fingers threading to my scalp, and I'm sure he's about to yank it and scold me. But then he doesn't, merely keeps his hand there. "You wouldn't know style if it bit you in the backside."

I make a grumpy but consenting sound in my throat, and then change the subject. "I don't care that you caught me," I grumble, shifting my eyes away. "I won."

He looks down at me with brow raised. "Is that so?"

"Is so."

His laugh comes out in a breathless huff, and I feel his smile stay as he rests his cheek upon my head. "All right, darling. I'll give you this one."

* * *

He's left me in the tower again—the door locked tight this time. Playtime's over.

"It's been fun, darling, but I really do have other matters to attend to. Be a good girl and wait nicely," is what he said before slapping a few petals of the heart flower onto the bite wound he gave me earlier. The punctures were not as deep as they felt, and I threw him a questioning look. He merely smiled that devilish smile. All that before he walked out like the catty bitch he is.

Rubbing the healing petals to the aching punctures, I bristle at the remembered words, the smug tone of voice. I try the lock just to be contrary, pace the room, lean out the window as if an escape route could possibly make itself known to me there. The effort is fruitless. I go back to pacing. What 'other matters'? Why couldn't he let me explore the castle in the meantime? I want to go back to the hall of stained glass, to touch the glowing etchings on the opposite wall, perhaps try to read them, just—anything than pacing this room!

Shriveled petals fall to the floor, their excretions drained and their color dimmed. I throw myself onto the floor beside them and shriek in a flare of childish fit. I'm tired of waiting. But, left with no choice, I go back to counting the seconds ticking on an imaginary clock.

I lose count somewhere along the way.

A sense of calm leans up against the wall of unease surrounding me. It washes off the graffiti of anxiety, cools hot and frazzled nerves. I don't know its source, whether it's the games or the little victories or something else entirely. I think of the victory he gave me, ponder the oddity of him 'giving' anything.

The rhythms of song start slowly, deep in my throat, no more than burbled rumbles, then rise up to mouth in wispy tunes. They are random, disjointed hums like a child would sing, but from there they morph into fuller strings of viable song. I stick to the happier ones I remember in an effort to vitalize the veil of calm, hope to keep it from tearing. I do not need the trampling hooves of fear or rage, have grown so weary from them.

" _Hmm-mmm-numa, numa-ay_ …" The thrum of indeterminate calm is kept in place by a familiar tune from another life. Its nonsensical lyrics and peppy beat rarely failed to add a spring to my usual heavy, prudent stride. " _Hey, little lover sta~ay or all my colors fade away._ "

It's said things are easier to remember in song, and given that I looked up the words, I am able to sing it in English, though the original song was not so. The acoustics of the tower provide me a playback, and I can't help but sway a bit, sway to the beat and remember happy, carefree times.

A flash of white at the corner of my eye stiffens my back, makes my child-like voice falter.

Ghirahim lays on my blankets of fur, stretched on his back, hands behind his head, legs crossed at the knees, the topmost one bobbing to the echoic rhythms. I notice the white bareness of his bouncing foot and realize he's never worn any kind of shoes. It is just the white of his bodysuit, with nothing more coming between the soles of his feet and his environment. No wonder he walks so quietly. …Tch, I always knew he was a fruitcake…among other things, but I never imagined I'd be adding 'fairy' to that list.

His swinging leg gradually stills when echoes fade to quiet. He looks to me, lip forming in an almost poutish purse. "Why did you stop?"

I swallow my resurging nerves. "What happened to your 'other matters'?" It comes out far harsher than I meant it to.

He waves a hand before tangling it back in his hair. "Done. She isn't there. Yet."

I blink slowly at this, my mind taking its sweet time to catch up. So he was dowsing for Zelda. And he hasn't found her. Strange how relaxed he is then. I eye him warily. The last instance I told him where she'd be and she wasn't there in time to suit his patience, I clearly remember being yanked by the neck in his bruising grip, him seething in my face, his glare threatening to set me aflame. Now? Now he's…taking it in complete stride. Like he knows where the spirit maiden will end up and has no worry or doubt she'll be there in due time. Time that he is biding like a cat that believes it already has a claw in the mouse's tail.

No doubt. No distrust. He has taken me on my word.

My jaw nearly hits the floor at the revelation.

"Little bird," he calls, arching his neck to look at me better. "Sing."

"I'm surprised you wanna hear it. Doesn't my voice make your ears bleed?"

He smiles, scoffs in what can only be described as a verbal eye roll. "You're not that bad, darling. I've heard worse, besides…you should hear the harpies sing." He shudders.

 _Harpies?_ I wonder. "There are…other demons." I say it, do not question, because I have suspected.

He laughs, low and quiet. "Though I am indeed a one-man army, my master could hardly be called a proper king with but one follower. Did you think I was the only one? Or did you think Bokoblins and the like were the extent of his rule?"

"No," I say quickly, grimacing at the mention of the demon king, "it's just…you're the only one I've seen. In person."

"Let's keep it that way." There is something menacing in his tone when he says that, though it does not seem to be directed at me. "Which is why you won't take to wandering without someone with you. Is that understood?" He turns hard eyes on me.

I nod mutely, frowning in troubled contemplation.

He relaxes once more, smile returning. "Good. Now sing."

I press my lips together and glare.

He watches me with half hooded eyes, bites his lower lip. He seems to be considering something. And then, "Please. Darling, sing for me."

All my composure shatters like crystalline glass and I must do a double-take with mind, eyes, and ears. Please? Did he just say please?! I am at a loss for words. The she-wolf in me does nothing to help, merely stands there with her toothy mouth unhinged in utter disbelief. It is the ewe who jumps into saving action, the ewe who says, "Yes, yes, he did say please—he did! You must reward such behavior or he will never again repeat it, you must, quickly!" and spurns me to sing.

I start off slow and unsure. What was I singing again? Oh, right—the Numa Song. Erm… Well, if it's awkward, it's awkward. It's as the ewe said. No denying him now.

" _Hey, little lover sta~ay, or all my colors fade away. Numa-numa-ay…_ "

It isn't long before I see him swaying, his leg bouncing, and hear him humming along. And it must have been the jaunty tune, the surprise of the _acquiesced_ 'please,' because I translate the song to Hylian without him asking me to. Granted it's only a direct, basic translation. I do not have the cerebral swiftness needed to match rhymes and the rhythm falters when I must drag out a clipped Hylian word to fill the gap of its more drawn out English equivalent. Far from perfect.

And yet, surprisingly, Ghirahim doesn't seem to mind. He beams at me with a smile I am not used to seeing from him. For some reason I cannot meet that smile—its lack of ill intent confuses me—and I avert my eyes.

When my peripheral shows him rolling onto his hands and knees, my already frail volume lowers. I try to steel against the nervousness as he comes close, crawling the short distance like a stalking panther. He kneels in front of me where I sit cross-legged, places his hands on my shoulders, and leans towards my face. He watches my lips intently, as if they're blessing him with profound wisdom.

I lean back, he leans forward. I fight not to lean further, know he will follow me if I do. So I keep straight, keep singing, keep my options open. And try to keep my hammering heart from imploding.

But when his tongue gently glides over his lip, it becomes too much—his proximity, his silvery scent, his intent stare. My heart shudders and my voice cracks into silence.

In an instant he has my chin between his forefinger and thumb. "Don't stop." His voice is hushed and rough, quiet, yet urging. A demand lightly disguised as a request.

He wants something, needs something. And for a moment, more than any other, I fear what he would do to get it. That fear kicks my voice back to life.

His winter-stained mouth moves silently in imitation of mine, matches and learns the words he so desperately craves. For what reason I cannot fathom. Maybe because it's something new, something interesting, something different among all he already knows. Perhaps he's hungry for something he doesn't know. And to a certain extent, I can understand that.

 _Ageless demon. He's been around so long it must feel like he knows everything. Nothing is new anymore. Nothing is exciting._

My heart trembles with the familiarity of those last two thoughts.

My suspicions are all but confirmed when I finish the song and he asks for more. His dark eyes, widened in excited wonderment, remind me of my little brother, of how he used to be before the busyness of life sucked him up in the same vortex that took our parents. The young adventurous spirit, the thirst to find more, to know more… How is it I'm seeing the same aspects in the face of a demon whose age spans far beyond even my twice born soul?

I remember the same look on my brother's face when we ran through the woods out in the park far from the city, when he'd suggest we climb the rocks, or explore the stream cutting through the ravine, glittering a sun-soaked trail through moss and roots. We looked behind every tree stump, over and under every rock, searching as if for a great treasure of our own.

And now it is before that eager and wanting stare that I sing my brother's favorite song, a song about rebels and outlaws, about pioneers and pilgrims, of underdogs and mutineers. I close my eyes so the tears do not build, slam the flood gates shut before the water even rises as a precaution. My brother used to play that song over and over…

A hand touches my face. A thumb presses just below my eye, further stemming the build-up of tears, whether done intentionally or as a mere coincidence is unknown. A voice rises to meet mine, softly at first but only growing stronger. I never knew what voice to imagine for the demon lord back in that old life, never knew what vocals or vowels would match with those…interestingly worded phrases, but now… Now I can hear him. My girlish, light tones mix with his darker voice, and they serve to both highlight and contrast each other. His voice is deeper than I thought it'd be, though far sharper than anything I may have dreamed up. In that regard I suppose it does hold a higher lilt to it, delicate yet deadly in a way only blades can be.

It is with that voice, and with the words of my brother's song, that I…actually start to feel…

I do not let the feeling complete itself. My guard, though unseen, resurfaces against the calming flood waters. Because I'm smarter than to feel at home. Because I know what I know. Because I'm not about to fall in with Ghirahim the same way I fell in with Shii.

After the song is complete I open my eyes to his dark ones, to the quirked lips of satisfaction still waiting to be satiated.

Ghirahim then announces our real English lessons will begin.

* * *

I'm as dumb a teacher as I was a student. My attention is easily diverted, mind wandering off on its own little adventure, sometimes in midsentence. Ghirahim gets fed up, grows tired of snapping at me and swatting my head. He decides we're going to take a more…engaging approach.

At first my heart flits nervously, especially with the way he says it, especially when he yanks me to him, but then we teleport. The contorting sensations leave me woozy as we reappear in Faron Woods. He plucks up my wrist when I sway.

He guides me along a path only he can see, a path lined with rocks and weeds, mushrooms and trees, little birds singing and leaves rustling to the soft breeze.

"Tree," he says, gesturing to one. "Give me the English word."

I do so. We start with the tree as a whole, and then he breaks it down from there. Leaves, branches, twigs, bark, roots… And then we move on to the earth, the grass, the rocks.

" _Stream_ ," I say in regards to a bubbling brook, continuing with, " _Water, spring, river, creek_ ," when he demands more.

At some point as we walk along, the canopy of trees whispering above us, light and shadow playing tag at our feet, his hand slips from my wrist, down to my hand, bit by bit. Maybe it's my unsteady gait, the stumbling and jostling that causes his hand to slide, so I'm unsure if he realizes he's doing so, until his palm is pressed against mine, fingers tangled. My hand feels small in his, bones fragile. It is with a grim jolt I remember he could crush it in his grip if he so chose, with not much effort on his part at all.

Discreetly, I try to tug my hand away. A smug smile tilts pale lips and he looks at me from the corner of his eye. His grasp tightens, and then he brings our joined hands up from the folds of his cloak to where they can be clearly seen. The knowing spark in his eye nearly makes me shiver.

"English word," he commands.

" _Hands,_ " I answer, lips twisting in discomfort.

He rubs his thumb over my knuckles. I get the hint. I give him the word. He wriggles his fingers, flexes his palm. I answer each time, trying to ignore the squirmy feeling in my gut. A feeling that only intensifies when he pulls me closer, traces a finger down my nose, under my eyes, across my lips. I give him the words, because I must, and try to quell the fear buzzing beneath my skin.

His free hand continues its exploration to my ears, fingers the rounded rims, while his other hand holds mine, keeping me bound in place.

It is when his touch travels to my neck and downward that the buzzing turns to a roar. My eyes widen, the feral smile twitching at my flat line mouth, questioning whether it should come out. _It's a trick_ , I tell myself. _No matter what he thinks he is or isn't doing, it's a trick._

" _Smoke_!" I exclaim in English, seeing it in the horizon's sky. "Smoke, it's smoke." I am too relieved at the distraction to worry about its source.

"A fire, hmm?"

"Fire?" Hoping to keep him distracted, I give him the English, " _Fire._ "

He turns his smile on me, and it's less…no, no it's still smug. But there's something in his eyes, something strange and almost…warm.

My heart pounds in my head, beating the drum whose rhythm says, _It's a trick, it's a trick, don't believe it, it's a trick._

"Yes, darling. _Fi-re_. _Fire_." It takes him only two tries to get it right, as with most of the words, first to try it on his tongue and then to meld it into one fluid piece. "Shall we go see?"

He scoops me up without further inquiry or consent and has me curled at his chest. We soar through the trees, my fingers hooked into red cape like a frightened cat.

We come to a steep decline, see the fire blaze bright orange on the hillside, black smoke billowing skyward.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The reflection of the fire glazes in his irises like a candle in the dark.

"Destructive," I say, observing the blackening trees and fleeing birds. "Shouldn't we…put it out?"

"Put it out?" He grunts and makes a face of distaste. "Its destructive force is part of its allure! And besides, wild fires happen all the time. It is a part of nature. It would be a foolish waste of time to extinguish it."

"Okay, okay. You're right. It's great, it's pretty."

I stare off into the blaze, try not to think of the displaced animals whose homes will be reduced to ashes soon. They'll find another, a calming thought says. I let myself be mesmerized by the glow, feel the heat carried on the wind. It'll be coming this way…

"What?" I ask when I feel Ghirahim's eyes on me. "Um, the fire's pretty…pretty fire, sooo…"

 _Why don't you look at it and stop looking at me?_

"You know, little bird," he says, dark eyes ever trained on me, "your aura is much like a fire in certain ways. Small like an ember"—He gestures his chin to the smoking hillside—"large as that inferno. Switching back and forth in mere seconds. Why is that, little bird? How can you be two very different things at once?"

"I don't know," I mumble, "I can't even sense auras, so…no idea."

He sighs. "I suppose you wouldn't. …Fire's crawling this way, darling, we should go. I don't want your feathers singed."

* * *

It is the evening of the very next day that he comes to me. I don't know what's come over him these past days; he can't seem to stay away. I'd say it's the desire for a new and exciting language, but he doesn't just come for that.

I just wish the cheerful songs had transferred over to today, because now he's…

I leap away from the sabre, the tip of the blade cutting the hem of my tunic. A dark glare burns in his eyes and I have yet to tag him even once. He is being far more aggressive, his slashes longer, stronger, and his footsteps quick and impatient. Is it because of the spirit maiden? Has trust dissolved—was it trust at all? Or was it a tentative hope he hadn't even realized he held?

I stagger and fall backwards, my heart beating a song of panic as he advances on me. His swift strides do not allow a single second for me to scramble away. Before I know it he is in front of me, the point of his sabre touching my throat. Gone is the lazy smile from yesterday, disappeared is the hooded contentment of his eyes that I had not known was there until now.

I can do nothing but sit frozen and wait, wait for him to either let me up or slit my throat. My expression stays as frost, and not even the smile of mania shows through.

Ghirahim does not move either. His face seems stuck in that dark glare, the only movement seeming to be that angry spark glinting in his eye. There is a fight crackling in those black pits, as if he is trying to come to a difficult decision. That, or he is trying to come to terms with something…

Suddenly there is a twitch at the corner of his sharply frowning mouth, and then another twitch, barely detectable, at his lower left eyelid, something I would not have seen if not for the chilled breeze blowing in through the tower window, gently lifting his curtain of hair. A quiet, strangled noise comes from the back of his throat. And then he is moving the sabre. The slight, but all consuming, pressure leaves the fragile ridge of my windpipe, traversing instead to the right of my neck, the flat side of the sabre sliding along my jugular. My pulse quickens against it.

He tilts the blade, presses it into my neck agonizingly slow. The lack of splitting flesh alludes to the fact he is pressing the dull, flat side of the sabre into me, not the hair-splitting sharp edge. My brow wants to knit in confusion, but I do not allow even that to show. Cannot, I should say. The frost keeps my expression immobile.

The flat end of the blade pushes up against my jaw, prevents me from lowering my head. Seconds pass in a tense staring contest. He is the first to break it, his burning eyes flickering up and down my body.

"You're an ugly little creature," he whispers. But the way he speaks it is strange, as if I'm not the one he's trying to convince.

I do and say nothing.

His eyes flicker up and down my frame once more, and then his black glare manifests into a full blown snarl. "You've been wearing those disgusting clothes since I met you! Honestly, have you no sense of style?! Ugh!"

I blink hard. "Eh?" is all I can manage.

"I can't take the sight of that hideous getup any longer!"

The frost abates and I finally let my brow come down. "There's nothing wrong with what I'm wearing, 'Master.'"

"The fact that you think it's okay makes me lose what little faith I had in humanity!"

"You…!" I stumble over my tongue. My brain catches up, and I look up at him in awe. "You…had faith in humanity?"

His lips thin. "…Well, pretend faith. Only for this moment."

My face flattens as I deadpan, "Of course."

He removes the sword from my neck, fingers of his free hand fiddling with the sharp tip. "Those clothes are no longer acceptable. You can't be seen standing next to me in such filthy rags."

My nose wrinkles. "Whatever. Haven't you ever heard that keeping ugly…" I cannot bring myself to say friends. "…people around pretty people only makes the pretty look prettier? Or something like that?"

His stare is intense. "No, I haven't. Even if that were true, I have plenty of Bokoblins around, but you…you are…" He drifts off, suddenly seeming at a loss for words. He regains ground. "You are not a Bokoblin. Which reminds me, that stupid little Bokoblin you spared isn't acting any smarter. I think I'll kill him soon. Does that make you happy?"

I gape at him. "What? No! What the hell, man?!"

The sabre comes back to my neck. "Language," he hisses.

"What the…heck, man." I stutter, voice losing strength.

A please smile upturns his lips. "I'll give the Bokoblin more time then. Until that time runs out, we need to do something about that…" He sneers in contempt. "…ensemble you call an outfit."

"Well, excuse me"— _Princess_ , whispers from the back of my mind—"for not having a spare change of clothes! I didn't exactly pack."

He resumes fingering the tip of the sword. "The rest of your wardrobe was probably just as pathetic. Not to worry, darling, I'll see to it that you get something decent."

My glare stutters with fear. "I refuse to wear anything skintight."

His eyes slide to me, and he smirks.

"I mean it." I stand, looking him right in the eye. "I won't wear it."

"Anything," he says, stepping forward, "will be better than this burnt and soiled garbage."

I look down and see that he's right about those last two points. My tunic still bears the blackened, frayed seams left by the fires of Eldin. Multiple stains, blood and dirt and grass from the forests of Faron, spot the fabric from top to bottom. But I do not want to concede to him, not after he frightened me with that sword. " _Whatever,_ " I say in English, " _you're super gay._ "

His eyes sharpen. "What was that?"

"…I said fashion is STUPID!"

His hand darts out and grips the front of my tunic. With a single firm yank, he tears the cloth from the top hem of the bodice all the way to my navel, leaving a sagging gap where my dingy camisole shows from underneath. The fabric of the undershirt is worn, almost see through. I stumble back and slap the flap of blue tunic back over the tear. I raise my eyes, glare electrified, ready to yell at him. But my yell is caught, the breath never making it out of my lungs. I am frozen once more.

I don't like the way he looks at me. There is something smoldering in his eyes, something hot and barely contained. Something I cannot discern.

* * *

 **A/N: I have mixed feelings about this chapter. Sometimes when I look at it, I like it, and other times not so much. I hope you enjoyed it regardless. And thank you all again for everything! ^.^  
**

 **Songs referenced are the Numa Numa song and Renegades.**


	15. the split heart

**A/N: Thank you James Birdsong** , **Moon ninja Luna, PokemonTrainer4700, autumn-lee-edits** (it won't let me write your username as is. It thinks you're a website. ^_^') **, Mokki Takashi, Voidlash, Onoskelis** (do not touch his hair indeed XD) **, Alter Ego Bob, Wingdings13, Ambiguous Cake, Fury** , **Maybe** (Don't worry, I understand about being busy) **,** **and CrashingUpward for your reviews of encouragement and advice. I appreciate every one.  
**

 **Now hold onto your socks, because it's a long one.**

* * *

 **Chapter 15**

I was scared, those moments caught in Ghirahim's burning gaze. Again I was frozen. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. All I could do was wonder, hope, and pray he wouldn't act on whatever he was thinking.

The gentle pitter of rain, just beginning, whispered into the silence. It broke the trance. Ghirahim blinked hard, caught himself. The strange part was he looked just as confused as me, and…if I didn't know better…I'd say even a little frightened. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by clenched jaw and hardened glare. He did not look at me as he stalked from the room. Though, just before he stepped through the door, he snapped his fingers and sprang to life a pane of diamond glass to keep out the rain.

And then he was gone.

Relief made my legs weak and I slid to the floor. The hush of the rain tried in vain to calm the beat of my heart.

I don't know how long I sat there before returning to my pallet of pelts. In the end the rain persevered; I fell asleep to its lullaby. Warm, safe from the cold droplets singing outside the sealed window.

Now, at the hour of dawn, the rain fades out, and the pane of mystic glass with it. The first rays of light bleed through the ever-present clouds. More light than normal makes it through the haze, catches in a stray drop of moisture gliding down the stone inframe of the window, glitters like a freshly fallen tear. It urges me to stand from my nest of warm fur.

A damp breeze ghosts over my skin just as the fur falls away, raising goosebumps. Wrapping my arms around myself, I am made keenly aware of my lack of sleeves, made even more aware of the new rip in my bodice, of the shark tooth gap bringing an extra chill to my breasts. The dingy camisole offers little protection. I shiver, but pad to the window nonetheless.

I stand before the window forever it seems, wet stone lending the breeze an earthy scent. My gaze moves to the shifting clouds overhead. This tower is so high up it feels as if I could reach out and touch those rolling puffs of white and gray. They remind me of someone.

 _Turk…_ I think of my dapple gray bird, and can only hope he got better, and returned to the sky.

The mists dissipate slightly, more than they ever have, and now finally from this tower that should see everything do I get glimpses of mountains and trees. They are mere silhouettes of shadowy purples and blues, but they put a pulse of excitement in me regardless. I wonder what's down there, wonder what secrets there are to explore in this misty, shaded world. My imagination takes hold. Though my body is firmly grounded, my mind is given wings, and it goes on an adventure all its own.

My little brother is in it, wearing a dark, faded green tunic in tribute to his favorite hero. Wielding thin swords that make up in sharpness what they lack in size, we fight through hordes of monsters, dash from giant Skulltulas, and cut past throngs of Deku Babas. Against all odds, we fight. We seek the treasure hidden in the mountain. We search for the route of escape. We trample over the despair that threatens to choke us. We surge onward, the greatest allies of Link, the new hope for mankind, the…

The door of the tower creaks open, pulling me from long dreamed fantasies. My eyes widen at who I find standing in the doorway. "You. What—What are you doing here?"

The Bokoblin shakes on the wobbly stubs of its legs, looking as if it has been forced to come up here against every ounce of its will. Its beady eyes stare at me with fear. The morning light luminates its many scars. Its quivering hands are clasped in front of it, raised as if in prayer.

With a painful, seizing clinch my heart beats in the realization. This is the very same Bokoblin from Faron woods, the one I attacked in a fitful rage. No doubt about it now. Those praying hands were what made me stop.

 _Stop. Look at yourself—look at what you're doing._

Guilt slams into me full force, leaving me silent and immobile. The Bokoblin and I do nothing but stare at each other.

Finally I can take the awkward, fearful quiet no more. "What are you d-doing here?" I ask again, shame making me stutter.

The Bokoblin only shakes harder.

"Uh, please…" I keep my voice small and soft, not wanting to frighten it any further. "Come…in?" I offer hesitantly when it shows no sign of leaving. When it still doesn't move, I gesture with my hand.

The Bokoblin reacts to the motion, takes trembling steps into the room.

Mid-motion I stop and stare at my fingers, my palm. I remember trying to speak to the Lizalfos in the Earth Temple. Words failed, and in desperation I attempted to communicate in a language without sound.

An idea forms. I stare at the red creature before me, fingers flexing. I will speak to this Bokoblin. I will speak _with_ this Bokoblin. And I will do it without uttering a single word.

I gesture it to come closer.

It hesitates, and then shuffles forward only an inch.

My heart clinches again. What must I look like to this creature? The light at my back throwing my figure in the shade of silhouette, the chilled breeze from the window making my hair writhe like inky tendrils, the rusted bloodstains on my clothes—some of it from this very Bokoblin. I've always regarded its kind as monsters, but now I must look like the monster.

I fiddle with my fingers, second-guessing myself. Ultimately I concede to try. I have to, I realize. I've nearly killed this Bokoblin, and…I haven't exactly saved it yet.

I step to the side of the window, then gesture at it. "Window," I say, stacking one hand upon the other, palms facing me, like a wall. I separate them vertically, and then bring them back together, a motion akin to the opening and closing of a modern window. I do the sign again and again, each time pointing to the large window beside me.

The Bokoblin blinks like a dull-witted cow.

I frown, tempted to give up. But then I remember Ghirahim's threat. _I'm going to make you watch_ , he said. I shiver, recalling the way he spoke into my ear. But then the she-wolf bares her fangs. Her reply is absolute. _No. You're. Not._

I get on my knees and shuffle closer, slowly, carefully. The Bokoblin goes to step back but I grunt and hold up my hand in a stop gesture. I try the window sign again. And again. And again.

Eventually, so _very_ eventually, the Bokoblin puts the pieces together.

"Yes," I whisper excitedly. "That's it. Window."

I point to the window again, and then I wait. I do not do the sign. The Bokoblin does, if hesitantly. I suppress a squeal of excitement.

"Yes, yes," I say, holding up a fist and motioning it like I was rapping on a door. It is the sign for 'Yes'. I nod with my head in addition, hoping the Bokoblin will catch on. It doesn't. Not right away, anyway. Like with the window, I must repeat the motions endlessly until it understands.

As it does, I squint at it, wondering what 'it' really was. No female could be that ugly. I frown. No, no, I can't say that for certain. A female could very well be that ugly. …Oh well. I'll call it a 'he' from now on.

And then I start wondering about its—his—name.

Not knowing the Bokoblin tongue, and not knowing that frightening, heavy language Ghirahim was using, I realize we'll have to come up with our own name signs.

I look at the Bokoblin. He is still signing 'Yes' with that blank cow expression.

It will have to be simple signs. _Very_ simple signs.

I hold up my hand with index and middle fingers extended, my thumb nestled between the two, for the letter K. I point to myself, sign K. Rinse and repeat.

Next, I point to him, then hold my hand with all fingers extended, the thumb laid flat across the palm for the letter B. For Bokoblin, I guess. Or Bob. Boko Bob. Bob-o-kin.

After that I try to remember more signs, but then decide I don't want to overload Bob-o-kin's brain.

I point to the window, hoping he's retained the information. Long seconds pass. I hold my breath. Finally, clumsily and slowly, he does the correct sign. My breath comes out with a smile. A real smile, gentle on my face.

I point to myself. He struggles. I flash the K sign quickly to remind him. Next I point to him. He tentatively holds up the K sign again. I shake my head and grunt. I sign B. His eyes light up in understanding.

We go through the gestures again and again. I don't want him to forget; his life depends on remembering. If Ghirahim sees that he can learn, he'll be more inclined to let him live. Perhaps more inclined to let others live too. My heart swells with a sense of pride and accomplishment. I was right. They can learn. Bob will be allowed to live. I think that more than makes up for those scars.

I think so, but Bob doesn't, apparently. Suddenly he starts shaking again, suddenly his hands are back in that gesture of prayer. And it makes my heart hurt all over again. The she-wolf sinks in her guilty fangs. A flash of blade and blood tears through my mind.

The clouds shift. For a moment, just a moment, there is a glare of real sunlight, of a true sunbeam reaching into the lonely tower. It illuminates a splash of white in my peripheral, and when I turn my head there is Ghirahim. He leans in the doorway, eyeing us, a smile playing at his lips.

I shift uneasily, lacing my fingers over my torn tunic. "How long were you watching?"

"Long enough. What was that you were doing with your hands?"

"…Sign language."

"Another language? And you were keeping it to yourself? My, my, aren't we the secretive one." There is a glimmer in his eye that makes me nervous. I attribute it to the sunlight, but then realize it had gone as fast as it had come.

I glance at Bob, who is frozen, trembling where he stands. "He…he was learning."

"I saw. It's a miracle, really. I didn't think it was possible."

I steel myself. "…He lives?"

Amusement quirks the demon lord's lips further. A laugh, dark and slow, rumbles from his chest. "Sweet bird. Yes, I'll put an extension on his life. For now. Keep teaching him. I'll be watching."

* * *

Days pass. Ghirahim never mentions or apologizes for my ripped tunic. Suddenly it is as if that part of me doesn't exist—he looks solely at my face. Or my hands, if I'm teaching Bob sign. Nowhere else. Just to be safe, I take loose strings and knot what I can of the torn hem back together. No temptation. I mean, tch, not that there's any temptation to begin with. I'm human, after all. He couldn't possibly think I'm pretty. I may be a step up from my previous life, but I'm still plain as a piece of wood.

He's acting weird around me though. Well, weirder than usual. The way he smiles, for instance. Sometimes it's the usual smarmy smirk he wears before chucking a dagger at me. Other times…his smile… His eyelids are lowered, and his lips are quirked evenly. I can find no trace of ill intent in his face. He looks at me as if through a dream-cloud haze.

And then, when he comes out of it, he glares at me like I've done something wrong.

The tight-rope I walk with him seems to be getting thinner, and I'm not sure where to step. When I think the path is straight, he throws in a curve. Though it hasn't gotten too bad; I've handled it.

But this? This has gone too far.

"Why? Why is it always spaghetti?" I look up at Essil, voice and expression stricken.

The purple Lizalfos puts a claw tip to her lip, then shrugs.

"It's always spaghetti," I lament. "Has he eaten nothing else since I introduced him to it? And why is he sharing with me?"

"Mi'lord likes your _spa-ghetti_ ," Essil replies simply, placing the plateful she was holding beside my fur pallet.

I glare at the plate. "Then he can have it. I won't eat it."

Essil's watery eyes go wide. "B-But you must!" She wrings her hands. "He will blame me if you don't."

I wrinkle my nose. I don't think I could stomach any more pasta for the rest of my life. Ghirahim's insisted I eat it. Day after day. I can't take it anymore. I give Essil a hopeful look. "Just don't tell him. Can't I have some of your pheasant soup instead?"

To my crushing disappointment, Essil shakes her head. "Mi'lord will be o-offended, and he will know if you don't eat it. It is his wish to share with you."

I groan like a dying sheep, curling over where I sit and put my face in my hands. He's doing this to torture me. He must be.

"Quiet, human! Unless you'd prefer to return to the days when you received nothing." Shii walks into the tower room with a scowl. She stands by Essil and crosses her arms.

I glare through my fingers. She's still mad at me for my escape freak out. But, honestly, what did she expect? For me to sit quietly in this empty, cold tower and let the voices in my head grow louder and louder? To allow Stockholm to settle fully between us? I couldn't let the buddy-buddy thing continue. Although, I'd…I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it.

"He didn't blame you," I mumble, referring to Ghirahim.

Shii scoffs. "And you knew he wouldn't? Spare me. You knew nothing! You up and ran like frightened prey. Mindless, brainless fear. I saw it in your eyes."

I inhale deeply. "…Excuse me for wanting out of prison for a while."

"Prison?" Shii glares so venomously her yellow eyes seem to glow. "Prison?! You don't know what prison is. You don't know how good you have it. My lord's true prisoners don't come up here, human. They go down _there_." Shii points a claw to the floor, needle-teeth grin emerging. "To the dungeons. And when my lord deals with them personally, they end up looking like that." Her claw indicates the plate of spaghetti, red sauce and shreds of noodles abound.

I stare at her blankly. Partly because I don't want to give her the satisfaction of expression, the other part because I don't know how to digest what she just told me.

"Those little games he plays with you?" Shii continues. "Just that. Games. Nothing compared to the torture he specializes in."

My mind draws a flat line.

Shii sneers. "You're not a prisoner. You're a pet! But you didn't know that, did you? You know-nothing. Know-Nothing Prophet."

The clicking noise of Essil nervously biting her claws fills the ensuing silence.

"…Call me know-nothing if you want, but I did know he wouldn't kill you," I say with the sullen attitude of a moping child. It's a lie. A lie to cover the cold glare of the she-wolf, who was willing to potentially sacrifice her captor, no matter how kind, if it meant freedom from the tricks and vices of an emotional mind-state.

Shii snorts her disbelief.

Suddenly I raise my eyes, stare her dead on. "No matter his reaction, no matter what I knew or didn't know, I wouldn't have let him kill you," I say, firm as a rock.

Her glower flickers.

I sit up straighter, speak louder. For a moment it seems not to be my voice—or my words. "I would _not_ have let him kill you."

My heart clinches again. This time with the bite of the ewe.

* * *

I don't know how much time goes by. Days. The pain in my chest only gets worse. Pain in my head joins it, flashing white behind my eyes.

Pale, cool fingers clench in and out of fists. They are not as pale or as cold as Ghirahim's, being mottled with pinks and slight blue veins. I remember a knife in these hands, remember blood running down the blade…

The timid smile on my face barely matches with the worry in my fright-widened eyes. I've been thinking too much, I think. I've been reminded of things I thought were long buried.

Just this morning I was laughing—laughing like I haven't in years. With joy, with unrestricted glee. Nothing cold or distant or fake found in its sounds. And yet, by the time the laughter was through, my heart was once again reminded of itself, just as it was the day before with the Bokoblin and Shii. I felt the streak of pain in my chest as surely as I'd been cut.

I can't hurt him. I can't hurt Ghirahim, even when I mean to. I never thought I'd find myself thankful for that.

He upped the ante on our game of hide and seek, gave me a dagger and effectively combined the game with tag. I ran through the corridors with blade flashing, with manic grin in place, growing wider and wilder with every metallic echo I heard following behind me. It was in a bright hall of whites and beiges and dark woods that I saw the giant plate of gold hanging off the wall. It was a decorative cymbal, twice as wide as Ghirahim was tall, glittering at me from the hall's end. The gears of my mind spun into place. Anticipation flit nervously. I raced the long corridor, I climbed the ridges of thick stone—so thick in that part of the castle I could stand on it—and sawed through gold painted rope holding the giant disc in its elegant wood frame.

I hoped my aura would flare and lead my pursuer straight to me. It did.

The moment he was in position, I cut through the last fibers of rope and sent the cymbal crashing down. As it hit and flipped on the floor like an oversized penny, the loud gongs seemed to shake the entire hall. It smashed right into Ghirahim, would have crushed him if he were a mere human, but as it was the cymbal cracked down the middle, right where it slammed him over the back. He hunched against the impact.

My laughter flew in with the fading echoes of the broken cymbal.

"Got you! I got you! I—!" My laughter grew in volume as I saw a murderous expression come over his face like a shadow. "I'm gonna die! Hahaha—ah! I'm gonna die!"

With a vicious grunt he split the cymbal the rest of the way, shoved both halves against the walls. They thundered, crashing into stone. He looked up at me with burning black eyes, and I was sure daggers would come flying at me any second. But then, oddly, his mouth twitched, twitched until a smile surfaced. Laughter filled with reluctant mirth rose to join mine—almost silenced me with its sincerity. His eyes had softened.

"Very good, darling. You got me," he admitted. He spread his arms and gave a small mock bow, smiling up at me through lowered brows. "And now, I believe, it is time for payback."

I jumped from the wall, expecting to hit the ground running. I was not expecting to be caught and spun around, to be pressed flat against the wall.

"Got you," he whispered in my ear.

"Okay, okay," I wheezed, cheek smooshed against stone. "You win."

He pressed closer. "Say it again."

"You. Win."

He moaned into my hair.

I sputtered. "Would you stop that? Do you—do you have any idea how creepy that sounds?"

I felt his smirk against my neck. He moaned again, longer and louder.

"Geh! You!" I squawked. "You think I don't know what you're doing?! I. Know. You're just trying to freak me out—Stop that!"

His moan merged into a laugh. My gasps and sighs of exasperation soon turned to reluctant laughter of my own. But it was all too weird, too…friendly. I had to force myself to stop. A sudden pain in my chest helped in that regard.

Sitting in the tower now, thinking far too much, I look at my hands and realize something. I never asked if he was okay, just laughed without remorse after that heavy metal plate crashed onto him. I laughed gleefully, the she-wolf looking down in ferocious satisfaction. The pressure in my chest lessens when I remember I can't hurt him—the only person I could ever be vicious with and not worry about. Not that I should worry, I mean, he's my enemy.

And yet I…I have this twisting in my heart that reminds me…of a promise I've broken so many times.

 _I never meant to make anyone bleed. It was a game. It went too far._

 _The she-wolf doesn't know when to stop; the ewe doesn't know when to begin._

I've always been this way. It wasn't just the kids in Skyloft I've been rough with. On an elementary playground in a world far away I stood with the same vicious grin. I tackled her. She was my friend, a tomboy of a girl whose mother insisted she wear her hair in curled pigtails and donned her in pretty dresses. We'd skid over the mulch and dive through the tire swings without care to our wardrobe. That day I wanted to roughhouse like we had many times before. But there was something wrong with me, even back then. Playful swats turned into fists, harmless knee bops turned to jabs. I didn't notice my wrongdoing, took her shrieks as simple battle cries. It was still a game to me. She was supposed to be fighting back…

It was when I raked my nails across her and they came back red that I finally froze, finally heard her crying, finally realized it wasn't fun anymore.

I didn't move, just gaped at my hand, until a teacher hauled me off her, dragged me away. I couldn't move on my own, couldn't tear my eyes away from the blood under my nails or from her huddled, sobbing form.

She stopped being friends with me after that. Not that I blame her, I…I don't know what came over me. I can't remember what her name was, but I clearly remember the pain in my chest the days following.

 _I'm sorry_ , I wanted to say to her, but she wouldn't let me near. _Can't blame her_ , said the ewe—though, I suppose it was a lamb at that point. The she-wolf, a pup, chased her tail without a care, not understanding any more than I did what went wrong.

The ewe knew. I'd let the wolf take far too much control. Like the wolf, I found fun and glee in snarls and bites and insults. When I'd catch myself going too far, I'd pull back and swear to be more careful, remind myself that most people didn't find joy in such roughness. I'd let the ewe take the lead then, return to being sweet and mild mannered, polite and docile. A little lady in pretty dresses.

My heart was a green valley, full of rustling grass and flowers and kind things where the ewe grazed and played. In the center of my heart, however, ran a muddy, vicious river made of malevolent thoughts and actions. It was the river the wolf ran alongside. It tore grass and earth from its frothing banks, thundered in the otherwise quiet valley.

It never went away, never calmed to a tranquil stream no matter what I did. I couldn't change it—so instead I shut it away. I rose mountains to block the valley, and the malicious river, from the rest of the world. Hot rage became cold stone. Friends were few and far between. Of those that got through the mountains and to the river, only a couple stayed to like me. One of them showed me how to talk with my hands, instead of hit. The other…

 _The friend I used to have. What would you say about me now? You, who understood. You, who had a river of your own to match mine._

I stare at my hands in the lonely tower, think of the times they were colored red. From broken noses, split lips, knives… I think of all the times I tried to alter the malicious streak running through me. _I won't fight again. I'll be patient and kind. I won't lash out_ , I promised as I gazed up at the cross hanging above the alter. I was still a young girl, still with hope. My family still went to church then.

It wasn't enough. Not enough to block off the river—because in doing so I also walled off the green valley. No maliciousness, but no kindness either. Nothing but cold mountain walls.

Years passed. My promises kept breaking. I still hadn't figured it out.

 _I've been cold, I've been hard as stone._

Human beings that needed my help, I walked right by them.

The city was a cold and dreary place most days, matching my outward façade perfectly. I kept my head down and moved forward, walked past a homeless person sitting by a dumpster. I increased my pace, wanting to get away.

A flutter at the corner of my eye made me stop. I stared at a little finch, caught in a bright orange net, the kind you'd find in grocery stores with fruit in them. I stared and stared at the little bird's desperate struggle, nothing but cold calculating consideration turning the gears in my tired mind. Eventually, finally, I came to a decision. I bent down by the roadside, reached into the gutter, and pulled the netting away. The bird flew from its trappings like a bullet of feathers, shooting off into the sky without a backward glance or a trill of thanks. I didn't mind it though. I wouldn't have said thank you either.

Something hurt in my chest then. I again caught sight of that homeless person sitting with their back to the concrete, a black trash bag wrapped around them to insulate warmth in their ratty, padded clothes. I felt a stirring in my heart, felt as if something was moving inside me. I knew what it was—knew, but did not want to confront it. The Holy Spirit of God, urging me to help that person like I helped the bird.

The Spirit's whisperings held me there by the gutter, encouraging, gently pushing. But like so many times before, I turned away and ignored the calling. My feet, clad in new boots, were quick over the sidewalk, and the cold beige stone spanned as I put distance between us. What am I supposed to do? What if they don't want charity? What if they're dangerous?

 _What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?_

I all but ran from that place. The tightening in my heart only got tighter. It tightened all throughout the night, kept me from sleeping soundly. Still I ignored it. I can stop for a bird but not for a human being. It was that thought that finally pushed me out. I went to the store, bought the warmest, sturdiest coat my parents' abundant money could buy. As the sun crested the horizon, putting a hazy glare on the skyscrapers, I went back to that street with the coat in my arms, looked for that person…

The wall was bare. A plastic bottle skittered across the alley like a tumbleweed. They were gone. I lingered and waited, but they didn't come back.

I trudged home with tears in my eyes. I knew I messed up. I should've bought the coat yesterday and set it next to the person—I wouldn't have even had to say a word, wouldn't have had to touch or get too close to them. What was I so afraid of?

I promised God I wouldn't hesitate the next time, vowed to put away my cowardice. It was another lie.

 _Next time_ , I promised to Him, _I'll be good, I'll be loving and warm to the world like I should, like You were—like You are. Next time…_

But my time came to an end in that world. There was no next time.

Sometimes I wonder if He let me go because I was so useless.

 _It's not true_ , whispers a voice from the deepest recesses of my mind. _Not true._

I haven't changed at all, I realize in this cold tower. I threw rocks, I threw fists. Blood under my nails. I glared at the people of Skyloft, silently seethed at them as if they were to blame for my unfathomable situation. I scorned their smiles, turned my back on their kindness. Kept my head down and ignored the tingling in my heart.

The people of Skyloft…they were the ones deserving of kindness and pity. Not the other way around. There I was, a girl who had lost her world, with the knowledge that they could very well lose theirs too…

It still wasn't enough to lower the mountain walls.

Though there was one person I did not turn a cold back to.

But he wasn't even human.

* * *

Everything may have seemed well and good in Skyloft, but the truth was…we were living on borrowed time.

Population dwindling, it didn't surprise me when the boys started fighting over the girls. Women were outnumbered by the men, and so were in high demand.

I knew from the game Zelda was fought over, knew Karane would be too. But I never expected I'd be involved.

I heard them talking, heard my name mentioned. Short round Cawlin and tall spindly Strich. They went out walking after school, passed by the outcropping I was napping on. Well, semi-napping. Their voices brought me from my reverie.

At that age where most boys start considering, they spoke of which girls they'd go after. Zelda was not mentioned, as their alpha, Groose, had already staked his claim. Who else was there then?

"Kina has a nice voice," came Strich's nasally tone. "But I kind of like Peatrice. Do you think she'll hold onto my bugs for me?"

"Enough about you!" I heard Cawlin stomp his foot. "What about ME?!"

"Well…there's Karane. Or maybe Kya."

My eyes popped all the way open, brow coming down sharply. The heck did I just hear?

"No way!"

"But she is kind of pretty…"

"Yeah, pretty psycho! Now, Karane on the other hand…"

I scoffed, listening to those little screwballs, talking like if they wanted me, they could have me. Like I would just give myself over to their whim.

"Hey, numb-nuts!" I called down. Their attention snapped upwards. "All my love~!" I sang, right before I shoved a bunch of rocks off the outcropping. I laughed as the tumbling earth rolled after the two boys, laughed harder at the dorky way they ran, all the way to the edge where they escaped the mini-land-slide via Loftwing.

I laughed and laughed—laughed until tears gathered at the corners of my eyes and I doubled over, clutching my middle. It may not have been all that funny—dangerous and unfunny, even—but I had to take my joys from somewhere. The she-wolf howled right along with me.

The land of Skyloft is considered sacred. Every rock, every patch of dirt, is vital to our survival. So there's no surprise laws exist about chucking bits of earth over the edge and into the cloudy abyss, never to be seen again. Laws I had broken for laughs. So, again, it was no surprise I ended up in Gaepora's office.

"It is very, _very_ important to preserve what land we have, Kya. What were you thinking?"

Gaepora's disappointment had the habit of making me feel like the lowest piece of scum in existence. And the kind, gentle way he dished it out only made it worse.

I said nothing, kept my head down and shoulders hunched, as I usually did.

Harsher punishments existed, but he felt sorry for me, I guess. He confined me to my room with bookwork. As he usually did.

I swear I did most of it. But then the window called to me and, well, I had to fly.

Turk always took his sweet time, but he did come when called. Eventually. I just had to be persistent with the whistle.

We cut through the clouds, dived into the open blue, felt the cool wind between hair and feathers. I liked flying. It was the only time I felt partially free.

But on that day it wasn't quite enough, and I ended up doing something particularly risky. I wanted to fall.

Turk, perhaps sensing my retardation, lazily turned towards Skyloft. Oh, he had protective instincts back then too, but they were so subtle I never realized. I thought he was being a jerk when, instead of letting me plummet to the clouds, he dove at Skyloft at an odd angle and sent me crashing into the side of Batreaux's house. I cursed at him as he flew away, leaving me on the underside of Skyloft, where the demon's secret house was built into the rocks.

I didn't even knock before I flung the door open.

And that's how I caught a brutal looking bat-like demon chest deep in a pink bubble bath. He squealed like a bat too.

"Oh, geez! Sorry! I'll come back later."

And I did. Now that I think about it, Batreaux was probably one of the only people on Skyloft I enjoyed talking to. And he didn't mind the company either. Tch, most likely 'cause it was the only company he got. Sad that it was from a rude little snarker like me.

Granted, I was trying to be polite. I sat up straight after he offered me a seat, chewed with my mouth closed and sipped quietly when he gave me a tin of biscuits and tea. That was the ewe's nudging.

But the she-wolf wouldn't stay quiet, and I asked a lot of questions, didn't think before I spoke.

"Do your wings ever get in the way? Those horns look really heavy—do you get neck aches? How'd you come to Skyloft—where're you from? Huh…? Surface? Oh, neat!"

He didn't seem to mind though, answered amicably about how, yes, sometimes his wings knocked things off shelves and his horns got caught in the chandelier once, but, no, his neck was fine, thank you for asking. He was good natured and humored my stranger questions.

But then, one day, I asked a question that made him freeze.

"Do you know Ghirahim?"

He didn't speak, and I think he was trying to ignore the question, but I pressed until he answered. "Knew him, no. Knew _of_ him, yes. But I try not to think back to those days."

A more socially savvy person would have gotten the hint and dropped the subject. But I've always been dense, stupid. Or just plain uncaring. But even I, inept as I was, had a nagging feeling I should stop. I ignored it.

"Ooo, what was he like? Has he always been an arrogant frilly dickwad?" I spoke as if I had met him at that point. And I had. But only through a video screen.

Batreaux seemed very focused on straightening the numerous portraits of himself, and I briefly wondered if all demons had vanity issues.

"…A better question," he finally said, "would be how you know that name."

"Oh, I know lots of things," I said, unperturbed. Batreaux didn't interact with the other townsfolk, so I saw no harm. "So, so, what was he like? What kind of things was he up to?" I plowed onward in spite of my host's clear discomfort for the topic. Because I was hungry to know of things I didn't know. Give me something new, give me something to be surprised at for once. Let me have something to marvel and wonder at.

"It's not for a child to know," Batreaux said quietly, keeping his back to me.

"I'm actually forty years old, believe it or not," I replied boldly, a hint of desperation leaking into my tone. I really wanted him to believe.

"…However that may be," he said, crooking a portrait only to straighten it again, "whether forty or fifty…still a child from a demon's perspective."

There was finality in that sentence, and I finally let the subject drop. Until next time. But he always closed off when I brought it up.

"You know, I come from a world illusioned in peace. The most prominent countries could incinerate everything to dust with just a few bombs dropped. Not the kind of bombs you're used to. Big ones. They could destroy this whole island—and it would be just the tip of the iceberg. I know of things, of history from that world, that could shock even you. Do you want to hear? We can trade stories."

"No, no, I do not want to hear!"

It was the first time Batreaux raised his voice to me. I sat in stunned silence.

"I—I'm sorry," he corrected gently. "But, no, I do not want to hear. And neither should you. Enjoy the good things in life, child, adult, whatever you may be. And do not focus so on destructive forces. Or you may become one."

I stayed away from him for a while after that. Mostly because of guilt. There I was thinking of myself, pushing when I knew he was flinching with…bad memories, most likely. When I eventually visited him again, he was thrilled to see me, was still willing to bring out the biscuits and tea. And then I felt even worse, for leaving him alone so long.

I gave him the only thing I could—gratitude. In the form of crystals to my utter surprise. They kinda just materialized in front of me and dropped to the floor. Batreaux nearly fainted with joy; it was a cluster of ten.

I offered to look for more for him, but told him not to expect much. I found a couple more after that, scattered in between blades of grass and rocks.

Geez, I haven't gone to see him in a long time. I visited him sporadically, without warning or word, but he always received me warmly, with tea and biscuits ready. And now that's just stopped.

I look out the tower window, up into the dense, dim clouds above.

Not exactly my fault though…

The tower door blows open, and in strides the very bane of Batreaux's comfort, a black sabre in hand, a wide, smug smile plastered on his face. And as I look at him, I have to wonder…

Just what it was about Ghirahim that Batreaux refused to speak of.

* * *

As Ghirahim walks into the tower I clench my hands, remember the blood under my nails, remember blood running down the dagger I held. Who am I becoming, that fear and rage and coldness are all that's left of me.

"Are you okay?" I blurt, because I never asked him before, because I didn't let myself care—didn't answer the stirring in my heart.

He lowers his brow and frowns, tilting his head in confusion. "What?"

I shuffle awkwardly. "The…the cymbal. It fell on you. I…never asked if you were all right."

He looks at me sharply, confusion not abating. "Of course I'm fine. Do you think I can be hurt so easily?"

The offense is in his tone and I quickly respond, "No, no, of course not. It's just…"

Understanding melts his glare. His words are sweet, crooning. "Why, little bird, have you been up here worrying over me?"

"No!" The mountains around my heart shoot back up. "It's just—just…!" I lose steam, actually stop and think.

The image of the alter, of that dark wooden cross, hangs like a shadow in the back of my mind. Reminds me of all the promises I broke. Reminds me of a command I was given regarding my enemies.

I look at the demon before me, black blade still in his hand, waiting to be used. Bloodthirsty and cruel, malice is his middle name. The division in my heart has never been stronger. Have I let him influence me? Have I let his darkness leech off onto me when, as a child of the True God, it should've been me who shed light onto him? …No matter how fruitless of an endeavor that may seem.

The cross hangs heavy and foreboding. But He picked it up and carried it for me anyway…

 _I never meant to make You bleed…_

I must pick up the cross now, if I am to survive. Fear and wrath are tearing me apart, and if I don't pull myself together…I don't want to think of what will happen. The wolf bares her teeth and the ewe baes frightened, but I make them both quiet. Quiet, and looking forward, together. Towards one goal.

 _Come together. One goal._

 _I'll be good,_ promised that girl from another life. _I'll be loving and warm like You were, like You are._

A promise I broke again and again, but today—today the stirring in my heart is so strong it hurts. I'll tame the she-wolf; I'll rein in the fleeing ewe. I'll make it so the wolf protects the ewe, clears the path for her, to take the seeds of the green valley and sow them in desolate lands.

 _Love, love the world like You did, like You do._

I clench my hands, realizing, remembering…

 _A love that extends even to enemies._

I won't let myself turn an iron heart to Shii even if she is my warden. I won't risk her life like I did. I'll jump in front of the black blade just like I did for the Bokoblin. Though I'll retain some sort of wall of wariness, because an enemy is still dangerous, it won't be like the iron mountains.

And Ghirahim…

I raise my eyes to meet his, unclasp my hands, and steady my voice that wants to tremble so badly. "Yes. You got me. I—my silly little self—was…" I lose courage, lower my eyes, reclasp my hands, pushing just to get that last word out. "…worried."

The silence is deafening, and I dare not chance a look at his face, all too sure I will find cruelness and mocking.

"Go ahead. Laugh." I say it quietly. I wait for his derision. But no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I'll be a light. Even…even if only a small, flickering one. And even if I go out again, if I break my promise—as I've done so many times—then I'll…I'll keep trying. I'll be a light. I'll make up for all the times I never was.

"Little bird…" he says, and he sounds alarmed.

I quickly realize why. I raise my hand and gawk at the white glow radiating off it. No, not just my hand. My whole body.

 _White light, white light… That white light is…warm._

The same white light that stole into my vision when I fell from the sky. The same light that sent Turk airborne and pushed back Ghirahim. The same light that put out the fire of Scaldera.

"Hold out your hand." Ghirahim approaches me swiftly, but also with a caution I'm not used to seeing from him.

I do as he says, palm up. He mirrors the action, hand above mine, palm facing down. I startle as a mist-like darkness gathers in his hand, rises up like inky smoke. Dark purples and blacks evaporate the closer he moves to my hand. Closer, closer until his hand hovers just over mine. The white light seems to grow more solid the closer her gets, as if flaring in a silent dare.

It looks strange, his pure, white gloved hand in blackness, my splotchy, human flesh washed in an unearthly glow.

Ghirahim observes it with hard eyes, calculating, battling confusion.

"Like no aura I've ever come across," he says so quietly I scarcely hear him.

Suddenly his eyes widen and he drops his hand the rest of the way, wraps his fingers around mine. The darkness envelops the white light, but does not extinguish it. It shines like a flashlight in the dead of night. Black shudders, whipping like a wind-battered flame. And then it dissipates. The white glow remains a few seconds longer, as if hanging on to make a point, before it, too, fades.

It is so quiet, I hear myself blink.

Ghirahim pulls me close, his other hand dropping the sabre with a clatter and gripping my chin, tilting my face left and right. His eyes are sharp and searching.

"Um." I squirm. "Um, uh…what?"

Ghirahim narrows his eyes. "Whatever it was…it's completely gone now."

I don't say anything, not sure what to say.

"Well," he says after a long moment, "never mind. I'll get to the bottom of that later. What did I come up here for?"

I glance at the sabre on the floor. "To see my pretty face?" I smile viciously. It is gone in an instant, replaced by a grimace. I'm not off to a good start on my promise.

Ghirahim regards me with amusement. And then he snaps his fingers, his eyes widening in realization. "Oh, that's right! I wanted to inform you something is being made for you. You won't be wearing"—His nose wrinkles in disgust—" _that_ for much longer."

I clutch at my haphazardly tied together tunic. "But I like—"

He puts a finger to my lips. "No." His glare adds weight to the already heavy word. His lips quirk at the corners. "What you have on now just doesn't go with your new necklace, and we can't have that, can we?"

I simmer quietly, reminded of the sleek choker circling my neck.

Point made, he smiles, moves his finger to stroke under my chin. "But it will have to wait." His smile grows, shows the tips of white teeth, something dark and foreboding sparking in his eyes. "We have somewhere to be."

* * *

 **A/N: At nearly 8,000 words, this chapter is even longer than the first. I thought about splitting it, but no matter where I tried it, it seemed abrupt, so I kept it long. I hope it isn't too much.**

 **I really liked writing Batreaux. And Kya comes to a potentially dangerous resolution.  
**

 **This chapter was heavily inspired by the song 'I'll Be Good'.  
**

 **[!] The rating will probably go up to M next chapter. I've found that I've dropped the f-bomb four times in this story already (three were Kya, one was Link -_-) and...I'm not sure where the line between T and M stands on that.  
**


	16. got no time

**A/N: My computer gave me quite a scare; I thought I had lost all my files. This isn't as thoroughly edited as usual, but I wanted to get it on here in case something else happened.**

 **Thank you Moon ninja Luna** (I'm glad, because here's another long one!) **, Mokki Takashi** (I thought the same 'wow!' when you said that. Psychic connection to stories? XD) **, Guest** (Sorry to keep you waiting! I'm glad you liked it.) **, Voidlash** (Bob will be playing an important role later in the story, you'll see~) **, Guest** (I'm touched. :) Don't worry, I will.) **, Bluebadger** (Sorry for the delay. I'll try my best not to make you wait too long between chapters. Indeed he is not nice. Something is definitely going on.) **, Tui** (That's good, because my chapters seem to keep growing in length!) **, autumn-lee-edits** (You were right. XD But things are going to get rolling here soon.) **, Ambiguous Cake** (Thank you for clearing that up. And Bat BFFs, yes.) **, Alter Ego Bob** (I hope you'll like this chapter, then! ^_^) **, and Maybe** (Thanks for clarifying.) **for your reviews last chapter.**

 **I was really bad about responding this time around (I squished them all in here ^_^'). I hope this earlier update makes up for it.**

* * *

 **Chapter 16**

Hot wind whirls all around me, and an even hotter sun beats down with unrelenting rays. It bakes the hills of sand that stretch on for miles and miles. Ghirahim paces around as I stand swaying in the heat, squinting to reduce the sting in my eyes. The reflective blare of sunlight on sand is almost as bright as the sun itself.

Ghirahim continues pacing, this way, and then that. A frown tugs at his winter lips, and his brow knits above his searching eyes. "I know I sensed her…"

"Gone?" I rasp, shifting uncomfortably. There's not a lick of shade anywhere, and—is that a lake on the horizon? No…no, it's just heat waves rising from the ground, making the distance look wobbly and shimmery.

"No, not gone." He scans the horizon, his dark eyes narrowed. "But not…in one place either."

My confused stare isn't acknowledged.

Ghirahim starts ahead of me. Belatedly realizing I haven't moved, he gestures irritably, prompting me to catch up to his long strides. "Come, darling, no dithering!"

I take off at a rush. The fluid sand gives way under my feet, causing me to sink and slide with every step. Twice the effort must be made in my movements, and suddenly I feel as if I'm back on the inclines of Eldin, instead of these slight hills of sand. I gasp and stumble and sweat. The hot breeze does little to wick away perspiration. Funny, just this morning I was in a chilly tower wishing it was warmer. Now I'm wishing for the opposite.

"Could you possibly go _any_ slower?" Ghirahim looks back at me. The stupid demon doesn't have a speck of sweat on him. If anything, he looks as if he has his own little breeze swirling around him, keeping him cool. Pfft, I wouldn't be surprised if he had a spell for just that.

"Yes." My foot slips with the sand and I thrust my hands out to catch myself before my face does.

Ghirahim arches a brow, looking down his nose at me from where he waits atop a hill of whispering sand. A smile not quite concealing his annoyance stretches his lips taut. "Do you need me to carry you again, little bird?"

I grit my teeth, turning my head away from a spray of sand the wind kicks up. "Well, just let me flap my arms and I'll fly, how 'bout that?!"

A metallic chime of magic rides on the wind's whistle. When I clamber to the hill's crest, Ghirahim is nowhere to be seen.

"Now, wouldn't that be a sight?" comes a whisper from over my shoulder. "Let's see it."

I tense to spring away, but am too late. He seizes me by the back of my tunic and pants and tosses me off the dune like I'm nothing more than a little bale of hay. I soar all of two seconds before I crash and roll, feet over head, down the hill, flopping and squawking all the way.

Something sharp stabs into my leg, sending a shock of pain up through my hip.

" _Cactus, cactus_!" I shriek, at last sliding to the bottom of the dune in a pile of bunched up sand. I glare upwards, eyes landing first on the stout prickly pear responsible for the spines sticking out of my thigh, and then to the demon laughing at the top of the hill. My heated face feels like it's going to explode. "You—! You— _ffss_! The one cactus in sight and you _throw me on it_! Really?!"

I continue to squawk and gripe, staggering to a standing position, while Ghirahim doubles over in laughter.

"Ah, I needed that," he sighs once his amusement abates. He brushes his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and then teleports in the next instant, reappearing next to me. "Enough shillyshallying. We won't have a repeat of last time. Oh, and, darling…" He saunters closer, brushing a wild mess of tangles from my face, the gesture seeming far too gentle. When his hand stays to fiddle with my ear, I freeze, immediately suspicious. He smiles sweetly, but it does not hide the malicious spark in his eye. He leans close to my face, whispering, "…don't sass me."

I jolt, swallowing a pained squeak. Ghirahim's other hand comes up with the cactus spines from my thigh between his fingers. He makes a show of splaying his fingers open, letting the spines fall to the ground in front of my face.

"Okay, okay," I grumble, rubbing my aching leg.

Ghirahim flexes and arches his hand, like he's waiting for an invisible someone to kiss it, smiling at it as if he's seeing something of great beauty. But then his eyes slip to me and an edge enters his voice. "Is that what you say to your master?"

Confusion makes me tense. "Yes…?"

He fully tears his attention from admiring his glove and looks at me sharply. "Yes, _what_?"

Understanding clicks, and I frown. "…Yes, Master." I say it quietly, failing to mask my sulkiness, and sarcasm left forgotten until after it is said. I stand straighter and retry, "Yes, 'Master'," this time peppier, this time not forgetting.

He smiles at me. "Good."

My heart shudders, stings, as my promise comes back to slap me. I'll be good, I said. Don't trust, but don't be mean either. Is it really all right to pull the wool over the eyes of someone who can't even detect sarcasm? And then I think, How can he _not_ detect sarcasm? How old is this demon again, and he can't pick up on something as mundane as that? But then, he isn't human, so maybe things are just different where he comes from. But something just doesn't feel right…

Why is he looking at me like that? What with that smarmy smirk and knowing eyes, as if he's got a secret over my head, as if I'm the one with wool over my eyes. The ewe wants me to back up, but the she-wolf bristles.

"What!" I snap, backing up a step. Just one.

His smile grows. "Oh, nothing at all."

My face drains of all color. "You…you've known."

His boisterous laughter is all the answer I need. "Oh, darling! The fact you thought you were getting away with something was simply _adorable_!"

I stand very stiff. "But—but why let me get away with anything?"

He flicks his hand in the air with a sense of regal nonchalance. "Sarcasm today, sincerity tomorrow. Although"—He leans to look me in the eye, his smile revealing the white tips of his teeth—"today would be tomorrow, wouldn't it?"

My mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

Ghirahim straightens, pretentious smiling never wavering. "You should see the look on your face, darling. Positively precious."

And then he hoists me up and plops me over his shoulder like a bag of kittens he's going to drown.

"Don't hurt the kittens…" I whisper into his cape.

"Hmm?" He hums question, but we take off and he doesn't care enough to revisit.

Ghirahim leaps dunes, the wind hurtling all around us. I close my eyes and try to pretend I'm on an amusement park ride. Life in Skyloft did little to lessen my previous lifetime's aversion to heights, even if Turk always… My heart clenches painfully as I think of my lost bird. Turk always caught me. Not gently, but…he caught me.

More than once we stop. Ghirahim stands. We turn this way then that. He makes like we're going one way only to change direction abruptly. Finally he huffs and we teleport, reappearing on an outcropping of rock high above, on what appears to be the start of a dried out canyon. A sea of sand and rock surrounds us as far as the eye can see, with no end except where it meets the clear blue sky. Ghirahim slides me off his shoulder and begins pacing again, scrutinizing every horizon.

"Are…you dowsing?" I ask uncertainly, stepping closer. "What is it? What's wro—aghhh!"

"Shh!" he hisses, retracting the finger he just shoved in my mouth.

I sputter and spit. "Ugh! Dude! That's not how you shush people! You put your finger to their lips not in their freaking mou— _gth!_ " My hair flips into my face when he cuffs my ear.

He tells me to hush once more, and returns to glaring into the distance. "…Blasted goddess and her irritating dog. They've put up a dispersing barrier."

I'm still rubbing my stinging ear. "Ah…what?"

"A dispersing barrier, you nitwit! It fractures the auras of those hidden within it and scatters them. I can sense the goddess's aura coming from multiple directions at once. A dispersing barrier must be the culprit."

I blink. "Oh, coo—I mean, not cool. Um…now what?"

He turns to me in an angry flourish. But then, with me in his sights, his glare twitches into a smile. "You tell me. Which way?"

A smile twitches at my mouth too. Only mine is born of nervousness. My mind goes into overdrive, thinking if I should or if I can, what if I get him there too early or too late, and surely the latter is better than the former.

As it turns out, you can only stutter and spin web so long before Ghirahim starts losing composure. And that demon losing composure is never good.

"Let's go over this again." His voice strains with barely held together patience. "Which direction _exactly_ , little bird? And speak clearly, darling; there's nothing more vexing than _mumbles_."

My heart skips at the growl his tone has descended into. "I—I told you, she's walking into the sun."

We look up at the noonday sun.

His gaze snaps back to me. "Was it rising or setting?"

"Um…"

"East or west?"

"…Uh."

He puts a hand to his head, pushes it along his hair as he breathes deep through his nose. "Just… Wonderful…"

"Well," I straighten indignantly, "if we had a landmark or something…"

"And so we should wander around until you see something you recognize?" He glares at me, a single strand of his immaculate curtain of hair drifting loose into his unveiled eye. "Don't be preposterous. We don't have the time!"

"Time…?" I echo. My brain clicks on. Timestones. Of course, the Time Shift Stones! I exclaim, "Master!" and begin my stuttering explanation of the stones. With a distant sinking feeling, I realize I forgot to mix sarcasm into his title again. _Sincerity today… Be careful, don't let that sincerity go too far_ , warns what's left of my good sense.

Ghirahim listens without moving, not until I am finished. Then he reaches up and smooths his hair once more. "The mines…" A sinister smile breaks out over his face. He swishes his cape and poises to snap before dragging me close. With a click of his fingers we're gone.

Cooler, stagnant air hangs over me. I open my eyes to darkness. Seconds pass for my vision to adjust from sun blinded sand to wherever this is. The black slowly seeps away, leaving a dim glow of pale blue, and my jaw unhinges at the sight I see. Tiny blue stones, hundreds of them, spread scattered all around, glittering from cracks and between stalactites of a deep cavern.

"Master," I breathe, spinning slowly, "are…are these all timestones?"

A whisper of cloth comes from the left of me. "They are."

I can't stop gawking, and Ghirahim takes me by the elbow to pull me into walking. "What are they all doing here? Don't those little robots mine them?"

"Hm? Ah, yes, those things. They do—or did. Unfortunately, these stone are too small to be worth anything."

"Are you kidding?!" I spin from his grasp to look at all the softly glowing stones. "They could gather all these up and use them to turn this crappy desert into the seaside paradise it once was."

"Those rusted pieces of junk cannot do much of anything anymore. But then, all they were good for was menial tasks…" He stops and looks at me intently, the bluish glow of the cavern making him seem an apparition from a dark otherworld. "…I scarcely remember the sea that once dwelled here. Odd, that you would know it. Your visions allow you to peer into the past as well, I take it?"

"Uh…" I swallow, jerk my head in a nod. "Yeah."

He stare bores deep. The smile tugging at his lips is one I know well—a premonition of potential rage. It tears at my nerves like a tickling black claw, trying to spook me into reaction. His lowered brow gives his eyes a wicked gleam. "What else do you know, little bird? I do hope you're not keeping anything from me." The manner in which he says it is amicable, sweet almost, but even I, with my density, cannot miss the underlying threat.

"No, Master, I'm not." I keep steady, pray it is enough. When he saunters towards me, the ewe screams _run!_ But for whatever reason my feet are rooted in place.

His slender fingers find my chin, and he tilts my head to look him in the eye. My heart pounds; my brain scrambles to cover its bases. Did I stutter? Is he on to me? In my anxiety I want to shake, to shiver and writhe, to run and hide. Instead I glare. Glare and scrunch my nose. It is the she-wolf, who isn't having any of this crap.

He does not blink. Neither do I.

As quickly as it spiked, tension drops. His smile becomes less sharp and his brows raise. "In answer to your earlier statement: No, they could not."

"Huh?" It comes out like a bark; my hackles have not lowered yet.

He grins and crooks a finger at me, leading me along a blue studded tunnel. I glance marks in the stone, deep gashes that came from carve-digging tools. I even spot a rusted piece of said tool, and I wonder if the robot is buried somewhere nearby, under a thousand years of built up grime.

"Only one Time Shift Stone can be activated within a certain distance. How big a stone is correlates to how much its time sphere can encompass. These little pebbles you see before you could only cover a foot, if that, I surmise." He flicks a hand. "Worthless."

"Melt them into one," I suggest, skittering after him in the narrowing tunnel.

He chuckles. "That would require immensely powerful magic. They're not normal stones, darling. Your goddess is the only one who's made something of timestones."

I frown, glare reflaring. "She's not my goddess," I say, voice gone guttural.

"Oh?" He regards me with a raised eyebrow. "Do you sky children no longer worship the goddess that whisked you away to safety all those centuries ago?"

I grit my teeth and feel like punching something. "They do. I don't."

"A falling out?" He turns a sharp corner. I see sunlight streaming up ahead.

"She was never my goddess," I say roughly. "My God is…the God of the Knowing Realm. I could never worship another."

Even if I've been left, I think, going unsaid. He must exist, because there is no other way I could accept. Abandonment is easier to deal with than complete absence of presence.

 _Even if He's left me here to drown, I could never follow another._ And then, impulsively my mind throws out, _He gave new life to the green valley of my heart._

I pause when I see Ghirahim has stopped and turned half-way to me, like he wanted to turn all the way around, but the urge to hurry kept him from doing so. He looks at me with brow furrowed, and it is then I realize I whispered my mind's declarations out loud. Did I say it in English? Yes, yes, I did. I still have the habit of thinking in my native language. Good thing, as it may have thrown in some confusion. Even so, my heart skitters and threatens to burst my head. It continues to do so even when Ghirahim, seemingly disregarding what I've said, moves onward. It is the lack of time that rescues me, the time he thinks we don't have, that tugs him forward. But it does not stop him from asking.

"The Knowing Realm…" Ghirahim glances over his shoulder to me. "Where you get your knowledge…"

I follow him diligently, head lowered. "Yes."

"Can you not tap into that realm at will?"

"No." My answer is smooth and concise. Because it's half true. "I just get visions or dreams."

 _Of a life long gone._

I am careful to keep that thought to myself, but something pricks in my heart, and I feel the need to elaborate. "They…they kind of present themselves like repressed memories that just decide to pop back up or something. It's…actually pretty creepy."

There, I think. Now it's not such a lie. And if he finds out… Oh, who am I kidding? If he ever finds out I knew how this whole thing ends from the get-go, he's going to string my guts out on a clothesline and leave them to flap in the wind.

I laugh nervously. "Crazy, huh?"

Ghirahim only hums thoughtfully in response.

The sun pierces my eyes and I must shut them when we step outside.

Ghirahim waves his arm to the surrounding area. "See anything familiar?"

"Gimme a minute," I gripe, squinting.

Sure enough, when my sight clears, I see a giant, crumbling statue of an ancient robot, saluting the sky. I run off after it without a word, the laughter of Ghirahim ringing out behind me.

* * *

"I trust you know to be careful," he called after me.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, not long before my leg plunged down into thick, mucky sand.

And now I'm trying to save my dignity and right myself before he catches me.

 _Too late_ , my brain provides. I'm snatched by the scruff of my tunic and yanked to safer ground. Ghirahim gives me a disparaging glare. "You little fool. How can you be so knowledgeable for a human, and yet be so stupid?"

"It's an art," I say, wriggling sand particles from my leg.

He slaps me upside the head.

My mind spins and spins, only being yanked out of its carousal when Ghirahim says, "Come here."

Blindly I stagger forward, and am once again hoisted over his shoulder. He takes me high to rocky ground and asks again of I see anything familiar. I struggle to get a better look around, arching up from my slung-over position. Rivers of sinking sand intermingle with rock and cacti. I can't see much else but red cape. I squirm. "If I could just— _meep!_ "

In one fluid motion he slides me down to his waist, hooking my legs over his hips. He smiles with wickedness. "Better?"

I sit ridged, desperately trying to ignore the fluttering in my lower belly, and say nothing, instead using the better viewpoint to answer for me. I cast my sights out, very careful not to look at the demon holding me. At last seeing familiarity, I raise my hand and point.

The hand at the small of my back tightens. My stomach tells me we're in the air before my brain does. As the warm wind whirls my hair into a tizzy, I can't help but notice the lack of heat emanating from the body I'm wrapped around. Ghirahim feels as cool to the touch as ever, almost as ice. I catch myself from melting into him, reminding myself who he is, reminding why I should remain tense. It doesn't matter that his skin is smooth as a river's flow, or that his snowy white suit feels as cool silk, or that his red cloak whips at me with teasing breezes of relief. No. If I am to burn, I will burn. And he can just…!

I stop myself from leaning my burning red face into the crook of his neck just as we hit ground. Though I try to blame my almost-action as a result of the sudden landing's momentum, I cannot fool myself.

Something's happening to me. Something very bad. I have to fight it.

"Off!" I gasp, wriggling to get down. "Get me—I want down!" Internally I cringe at the childishness that leaked into my tone.

Ghirahim laughs and lets me fall to the ground. I take off running, letting the heat festering in my body make up its distraction. He strolls after me, allowing me to take the lead like a little hound dog, sniffing for the trail we're supposed to take. I scramble over loose sandstone, stumble down an incline, trip and scrap my knee through my pants—the burn does not stop me. My mind is muddled from heat and stress. I fear what's coming, and if it will all play out as it should, or if things will go wrong and I'll see that dark diamond skin long before it is meant to show. I want to stop, I need time to think, but Ghirahim is behind me. A spiked wall or a wall of flames chasing me would be preferable.

Either way, I have to go forward.

I must be subconsciously trying to outdistance him, because I round a corner too fast, clipping my hip on a rock. I stagger and fall on my hands. My hair flings into my face and blinds me, and it is only through sound that I realize I'm in danger.

A high insect-like screech pierces through the hiss of moving sands, and crunching earth, much like that of the rolling Scaldera, rapidly increases in volume—closer, closer.

I scramble and fall and fall and scramble. I whip my hair from my face just in time to see a gray shell wall dotted with crackling nodes of electricity.

Then there is a clank of metal on stone.

The stone-shell stops mere inches from my nose.

Ghirahim holds his palm against the creature, looking down at me with zero impression. "My, you're far clumsier in this environment. Keep this up and I might think you're _trying_ to get yourself killed." With that said, he summons out his sword and thrusts it into the opening of the snail-like shell. A loud shriek comes out from that opening, along with a crunch and a spurt of blood.

I scramble backwards on my hands and feet, the desperate need to get away from blood curdling on the sands shooting through me like a whistle to the sky.

I wish he hadn't noticed, but he did.

He regards me for too long, dark stare intense, unblinking. "Does…this upset you, little bird?"

I flinch as he twists the sword, cringe at the tearing noise within the shell and the reflow of red that follows.

The entire time he does not take his shrewd, narrowed eyes off me. "Such a soft heart you have…"

I look away. Look away and curse myself. I should not have allowed myself to react. But I did so without thinking—it was a reflex. And now he knows, beyond a doubt, every little creature…he could cut them to pieces and make me writhe with empathic agony.

Ghirahim retracts the blade from the now dead creature with a jerk, and lets the shell fall to its side in a thud of dust. He stalks towards me, the bloodied sword hanging nimbly in his hand. He is unblinking, unmoving of that dark, predatory stare. Again I find myself trapped in that gaze. I cannot will myself to move.

He crouches before me, brings the blade up to my cheek. "We'll have to do something about that."

My eyes stretch wide. "W-What?"

A smile spreads his face. "Oh, come, darling, we can't have you weeping over every little kill." He stands suddenly. "But that will have to be a project for another time." The sword dematerializes in a spritz of black diamonds.

I don't like the sound of that, but say nothing.

He signals me to stand, then slips his fingers under my chin and lifts it. White lips form a pout of mock sympathy. "Don't look so morose, like I've killed your favorite pet."

I squint my eyes in imagined pain, thinking how awful it would be if I had my cats in this world—the horrible things he would do to them for my compliance.

Subtly, his fingers begin to stroke under my chin. Then, cool and feather-light, he traces the underside of my jaw, makes his way to my ear. He caresses the rim of the rounded oddity—probably the only other he's seen besides his mismatched own—and I mentally chant to stay calm. He's messing with you, I tell myself. It's a trick. He's trying to get under your guard—but you won't let him. Love your enemies, fine, but don't you dare lower that wall of distrust. Don't you dare feel safe, don't you dare feel cared for. That's what he wants—it's a _trick!_ He doesn't give a lick about you.

I fight to keep my shoulders from hunching, fight to remain as composed and remote as possible. My eyes narrow, my teeth grit. "We have somewhere to be…?"

"Mmm." He has that odd look on his face again, like he's sleepy: half-lowered eyelids and an almost lazy grin. "Indeed. We do. Your methods cause too much distraction, I'm afraid. Here, give me your hand. _Take it_ , little bird. There. Now you can't bumble your way into trouble. Let's find the spirit maiden, shall we?"

* * *

As it turns out, we were right around the bend from the central compound, the place where Link will raise the entrance to the underground mining facility. Will. Soon. Eventually. The timing is unsure.

The looming figure of Hylia's golden insignia demands my eye. It towers up into the sky like some abstract painting, the sun blazing behind it, setting it aglow in gold-red fire. The image stirs remembrances of a past that unknowingly foretold the future. Suddenly a sense of panic wells up in me; my heart beats faster, and I struggle to contain my breathing. The oppressive heat does not help matters. It's too familiar, that image. And suddenly it is far too real.

 _She's walking into the sun, white dress whipping in the harsh wind, golden hair tangling about her head. The sun burns behind the great bird that pushes those golden triangles into the sky. It is a monument to her—her insignia. She's there, waiting for her hero to arrive._

A hand squeezes mine too tightly, painfully. Ghirahim leans into my field of vision, speaks in a dangerously hushed voice. "What is it, little bird? What do you see?"

I blink, snapping out from the trance I didn't know I was in. "U-Uh, wha…?"

His hand squeezes harder, and he enunciates. "What. Did you see?"

"I…" _Quick!_ I think. We can't go there yet. I don't know how I know that—but we can't. Think of something, anything. "The…the mines. This is the entrance."

Ghirahim looks around at the sand raddled structures circling out before us. They have crumpled and sunken, leaving gaps where they used to loop in rings, smaller, smaller, until the final circle, the center of which was supposed to house the mine entrance, but now only houses sinking sand. Ghirahim flings out his arm in a violent sweep. "What entrance?"

I'm staring at the desolate grounds, wondering what to do, when an idea strikes me, as sure and as swift as a bullet. "The nodes... M-Master, I just remembered something from"—I shrink as his sharp eyes turn on me—"f-from one of my…very vague…visions. The entrance is underground. We can raise it up if we activate that control thingy in the middle there. We just need to find the nodes and activate those first."

His eyes trace from my pointing finger to the mechanism residing on the innermost ring of the stone structures. He then turns those unimpressed eyes back to me. "'Control thingy'…? Really, darling? Can you articulate no better? Surely you have a more cultured vocabulary than that."

"I—! Ghk! You…!" I stutter and sputter, all but proving him right. "I can art—artic—I can talk just fine! Y-You got me flustered, is all!" I yank at my hand.

Ghirahim's grip does not falter. "And you have reason to believe the spirit maiden is _in_ the mines?" His eyes are bouncing from horizon to horizon again, and I know he's dowsing once more.

I flex my palm, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "If you think you can find her better, then go."

His stare latches back onto me, and his hand squeezes so hard pain shoots up through my arm.

I bare my teeth and slam shut my eyes, swallowing my yelp. Did my hand just _creak_?

The demon tosses his head and his hair and blue diamond earring sway. "There's far too much sinksand for you to go gallivanting off on your own." He sighs. "Fine. This better not be a waste of time. Show me the nodes."

And I do.

I never gave Link enough credit for traversing these lands. He cut through Faron, powered up Eldin, and he's going to persevere through these tiring Lanayru sands. Me? Tch. By the time I get to the first power nodule, the only thing keeping my panting, sweating mess of a self up is a demon lord's hand. He looks at me as if I'm pathetic, and what keeps him from commenting it I'll never know.

But then, when I move through the puzzles and traps like a bird through the clouds, his expression of disdain slowly melts into one of serene appraising. What it settles into I cannot say. I can't read it.

After stubbing my foot on a timestone, I marvel at the time sphere that follows, at how what was old, dull and worn is suddenly vibrant, colorful, and new. I kick at the regressed snail-creature in between its spurts of electric fizz, nudge it until it's in a power outlet. I move through the ensuing unbarred doors and climb obstacles. All the way to the power nodule.

Ghirahim trails me. I feel his eyes burning holes into my back, and I never forget his presence. As if I ever could. His presence is like a dark cloud, heavy, putting pressure on the air all around me. I glimpse at him. He appears pleased with himself, for some reason. Like he's the one solving the puzzles. It doesn't occur to me, except in a rivulet of thought, that it's me he could be pleased with. I brush it away. There's no way.

Besides, I'm not sailing through this because I'm smart. It's because I've been through it all before.

"Zzzt! What are you doing—"

" _Holy shit!_ " My English screech shatters off the walls.

And with a kick, the little robot that startled me is quick to follow. It lands with an audible smack. Its electric blue eye flickers, and its stout, boxy body shudders with crackles of static.

I slap my hands over my mouth. "Oh. Oh, no…"

With relief I watch the robot spark back to life. A burst of light from artificial eyes gives them the illusion of widening to saucers. It scurries into a corner, holding its large disked hands above its head. There it cowers, huddling and shivering.

Ghirahim's disdainful sneer precedes a gleam of malevolence, and he starts over to the little robot to do who knows what to it.

"M-Master!" I scramble for something, anything. My eyes land on the thing we came for, and I dive for it. "The power nodule! I—I can't turn it, Master." I scratch at it like a frightened cat, attempt to stuff my fingers into the slot.

It is enough to redirect his attention. He is behind me before I know it. "Back up, fool."

I do so. At his back where he cannot see, I rapidly wave my hand at the robot in a 'get the frick out of here quick' motion. The little robot does not need to be told twice, and scuttles off.

The black blade materializes in Ghirahim's firm grasp, is inserted into the slot and turned like a key. The device responds, activating with the glow of an elemental symbol on its monitor.

The other two nodules soon follow, and then we're heading back into the center of the compound, to trigger the main control nodule and raise the entrance to the mining facility. A feeling of giddiness strikes as something occurs to me. Link was supposed to do all this. Link was supposed to search around and fight and solve conundrums. But it's already been done. I've helped him. And not just me…

I glance sidelong at the demon beside me, biting down a tremulous smile. Ghirahim has helped Link. And he doesn't even know it. _Ha!_

 _Wonder what he'd do to you if he found out_ , throws in the she-wolf, grin vicious. It wipes the smile off my face instantly.

I squeak when Ghirahim grabs my arm. Has he found out? I panic. Does he read minds?!

But it was only to yank me close. He snaps his fingers and teleports us to the central nodule, skipping over spans of sinking sand. If only Link could do the same, I lament once solid ground is again beneath my feet. But he must do it the hard way—as always. Well, at least I've made it somewhat easier on…him…

"Uh…" I peer up at Ghirahim's face. "Are you okay?"

His expression has gone stark, his eyes wide. He stands ramrod straight, staring off into the distance like he's trying to blow a hole in the desert with his eyes. "There!"

And then he's gone, in a flare of diamond fractals.

I stare at where he stood. I stare at the direction he had been looking…opposite from the Temple of Time.

 _Ha ha_ , laughs, surprisingly, the ewe. _Dumbass._

* * *

I don't know what to do with him gone. He left me with no sword or dagger to turn the nodule with. Boredom and restlessness get the better of me. So I wander.

So many areas, and nooks, and crannies I cloud not fully explore in the game. So many sights I could not truly appreciate until now. Sand particles skitter across rock and stone like thousands of little bugs, the detail of which could never be conveyed through a video screen. The hot slap of the wind and the stinging sand add the finishing touches and cement me in reality, and prompts me, despite my wandering feet, to take caution I would not have taken otherwise.

I probably should have waited, I think too late, after I have already started exploring. It won't be long before Ghirahim realizes Zelda isn't where he thinks she is. I wonder what made him take off like that. Maybe one of the auras changed? I don't know, and I'm quick to shrug it off. I won't go far, I tell myself. He won't be too mad if I tell him I saw something I recognized, and therefore had to investigate.

I sneak around enemies, creeping corners and stepping lightly. I'm looking for solid ground among shifting sand when a bird's scream carries on the wind. I freeze, listen. Then I spot one of those big, fat birds with dark feathers sitting in a dead tree. Aren't those the ones that drop rocks? I wrinkle my nose at it and continue on, hunkering down so it will not see me.

My exploration takes me past ancient structures, over sand-worn carvings, past sands falling like water over steeping cliffs. I wriggle my way into a fissure in the face of one of those cliffs, hoping for another glimpse of glowing caverns. But sunlight trickles in from crevices up above, lighting the trail in golden flakes. I follow the speckled path, narrow and jagged but still traversable, my shadow eclipsing warm earth. Wonder and awe like I haven't felt in a long, long time thrum in me. What's around the next corner? Something new, something exciting, something wonderful—oh it could be anything!

I trot down the rabbit hole, imagining for a split second that they're beside me. My brother, my friends. We're here to travel this world, here to see what lies beyond the corner, what waits beyond the beyond.

A distant clinking draws me back down to earth. Fear spikes, but with it, curiosity. Is that a monster, or something else? I am led by the echoes, deep into the caves.

I round the next corner and jump in my skin, seeing a moving rock—no, a creature…

 _A Goron_ , my brain finally supplies. I can't recall his name, but I know him. He's a researcher of mysterious wonders, like the other Goron. What _were_ their names? My brow pinches trying to remember.

I walk up behind him slowly, boots softly scuffling sand. I open my mouth, close it, not sure how to speak without startling him. So, like an awkward creeper, I stand there, twiddling my thumbs.

The Goron chips away at the rock face, his pickaxe swinging in steady rhythm, the _clink_ , _clink_ , _clink_ filling the sunlit cavern. Every now and then he'll stop and pull out a grub his digging uncovered, plopping the wriggling glob into a bucket sitting on the ground beside him. I stare at the bucket incredulously. I can't recall what exactly the Goron is excavating for, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't bugs.

The Goron pulls out another grub, this one about the size of an adult man's fist.

I scrunch my nose. _"Eugh!_ " I slap a hand over my mouth, but too late.

"Hm?" The Goron turns. His face is flat and round, accented only by what appears to be jagged rocks protruding from his chin like a beard. His dark beady eyes blink surprise. "Oh, hello there…miss, or sir? I apologize. I hardly ever get visitors."

My hand falls from my mouth, expression melting from that of a startled deer to a flat deadpan. "Miss. It's miss."

"Ah, I see, sorry. Like I said, I rarely get visitors, especially not…any like you."

"You've never seen a human?"

The Goron scratches his chin. "Is that what you are? Well, now that I think about it, that reminds me of—"

A loud scuffling echoes from a tunnel branching off from the cavern we're in.

I side-step away from the sound. "What was that?"

"That's probably just Old Gray. I imagine she's getting hungry again." The Goron stoops to pick up the bucket. "She's getting very difficult to feed. But you should see her, miss. There's not a bird on this earth as big as her."

"Bird…?" I stand shell-shocked, not daring to hope.

I hear the scuffle again, this time picking up on the sound of sweeping, ruffling feathers.

I lean my body towards the tunnel, but my feet remain stuck, and it is only my high, strained voice that goes the distance. " _Turkey?!_ "

Silence.

And then an eagle's roar shakes the caverns, followed by the swift pounding of feet on dirt. Turk bursts from the tunnel not a moment later.

My vision blurs, and the image of Turk wavers. "Turk!" I scream, running to the giant dapple-gray Loftwing.

He answers me with a shriek of his own, the jackass not bothering to use his inside voice, and my ears feel as if they will burst from the caverns acoustics.

I bounce up and down, reaching for his beak. "Get your frickin' face down here so I can hug it, you dickwad!"

His face slams into my chest, knocking me down and expelling the air from my lungs.

I shakily lift my head. "Dick," I wheeze, before flopping fully to the ground.

* * *

"I see, so this bird is yours." The Goron, who has introduced himself as Golo, nods understandingly at the abridged, and slightly fibbed, story I gave him. "He came to me pretty roughed up, but he's done nicely here. Though I'm surprised he's not a she…"

"He's a he," I confirm, scratching Turk's head, bent down so I may reach it. "And…and he says thank you. From both of us." I bite my tongue and scold myself for letting my voice wobble. My vision starts to blur, and I know I need to get out of here before I start crying again.

"It's not a problem. I do what I can. But if you really want to thank me… This excavating business takes a lot of funding."

My heart sinks, and I futilely pat my pockets. "I don't have any rupees on me now, but—but if I get my hands on any, you'll be the first to know."

"That's all right. Just thought I'd ask."

"No." I stand straighter. "I mean it. I'll get the rupees to you. I really owe you—it'll make me feel better if I gave you something in return."

Golo's face lights. "Thanks, miss."

And so, with a promise and many near-groveling 'thank-you's, I lead Turk out of the tunnels. He almost gets stuck in the narrower passages, and I realize I can't take him the way I came. With the social fluidity of a twelve-year-old, I stumble back through the cavern and ask Golo for directions out.

The blue sky greets us. Turk lets out a cry that almost sounds like a sigh, stretching his wings out and skyward.

I stand beside him, stroking under his wing and looking for any signs of lingering damage. "Can you fly now?"

He answers by taking off.

I am left in the wind and dust, gawking after him. "Don't just LEAVE me! Turk! Turk! You frickin' turkey ass, get back here!"

Turk circles me like a vulture, lowering altitude only to rear back up, again and again, bobbing almost tauntingly. I yell and scream, my skin flushing redder and redder. I wave my arms and stomp my feet, for a moment feeling like I'm back on Skyloft. The feeling is so profound, I do not notice when the jeweled collar around my neck starts to tingle.

* * *

 **A/N: I've taken the advice given and kept the rating at T for now. You will be warned a chapter beforehand should it change. Thanks!**


	17. revelation

**A/N: Obsession over sentence structure led me into a massive wall of writer's block.**

 **Thank you Voidlash, Pineapple** (That happens to me a lot, too. XD) **, Othaeryn, Moon ninja Luna, Tui** (Thank you. I'm going to try to keep it up. I enjoy writing, even when it's frustrating.) **, Mokki Takashi, autumn-lee-edits, Bluebadger** (Oh Turkey, Turkey... Sometimes I'm fast, sometimes I'm slow. Thank you, I do my best.) **, Meta-Akira, and Alter Ego Bob** (Kya is sullen and snarky, but she's stubborn. She'd never bow her head to another god. I"m glad you liked it.) **for your reviews and encouragement. They were much appreciated!**

* * *

 **Chapter 17**

Turk stops taunting me sooner than usual. He alights next to me, his sharp golden eyes looking down at me expectantly. He knows this isn't Skyloft. He knows there are dangers beyond imagination down here.

One of them could very well catch up to us at any moment.

He's going to be mad, when he gets back. A sinking feeling tells me he won't be as lenient as he was on the mountain. He expected me to wait then, that expectation would go doubly now. And I didn't wait. I took off, though this time not in panic, but in combination of abject boredom and tugging curiosity.

 _Yeah_ , I mentally scoff while checking Turk's wings once more for paranoia's sake, _that's an excuse Ghirahim will gladly take…while shoving several daggers in my face. The whole 'I saw something I recognized' might not be enough to calm him either. I…I've got to get Turk out of here._

I grip Turk's feathers and prepare to pull myself—Ah… Holy crap, he just offered his foot as a stepping stool. That's _never_ happened!

I stop gawking at the raised, proffered foot and step up on it. He rises it further, absurdly so, craning his neck down simultaneously, almost like he's about to scratch behind his head, and I have no problem pulling myself up the rest of the way. As I settle onto his soft, feathery back, a sense of ease washes over me. Turk feels it too, I think, because he loosens his wings and ruffles his feathers like he's finally shaking off a persistent chill. And then he's striding forward, a one-two, one-two march, getting some air flowing beneath his wings. It confuses me at first, as he's perfectly capable of taking off point-blank…

The thought that he's being careful now because I'm on his back tightens my throat and blurs my vision.

"I'm okay." I run my fingers down his neck. "We're okay. You don't—you don't have to worry, you freaking, lovable di…dick. Just—just fly! I— _hnngh_!"

My voice breaks and Turk ducks his head, his steady march becoming a sprint.

I hunker down. "I'm not crying. Shut up! Just fly! Geez. Why are you running faster? You can't run away from me, dumbass—I'm on your back!"

He goes faster anyway, head lowering further, like he's trying to outdistance my whiny voice. And it's odd, having him go so fast on the ground. There was never enough land above the clouds to gather such speed, so I've never ridden him like this. We split through the hot wind like a knife of silver and white, the sandy earth zipping by below. His bi-pedal gait is surprisingly smooth. It feels Jurassic almost, sitting atop this huge raptor-like bird. One angry cry from Turk sends the few monsters in range quickly retreating.

We come to a cliff, and he goes right off it. His wings snap out fully, pushing against the currents of air, the great flaps taking us higher and higher. With relief I watch his wings work, feel the strength of them course in the muscles of his back. I don't know what else Golo did besides feed him, but I'm grateful nonetheless. I think I have a few red rupees stashed away in my room on Skyloft somewhere. But, thinking about it, it doesn't feel like enough. I wish I had a silver, or better yet, a gold.

Turk and I sail into the open blue, and the wind gets cooler the higher we go. It's been so long since I've been in the sky…it feels strange. A sense of displacement, like I don't belong, quails me. Still, we go higher.

"Wait," I tug on his feathers, "we're not going back to Skyloft, are we?"

I look upward and squint. Skyloft is safe, far beyond the reach of certain demon lords. But…but I can't go back up there. Can I? A part of me wants to, another part does not. Back to the pen, gripes the she-wolf, lifting her lip and lowering her head. Back to the pen, the safe, safe pen, sings the ewe, jumping jauntily around the cringing canine.

I look up at the blue sky above, I look down at the yellow sands below. The ground is getting smaller.

I tap my knee on Turk's back. "Down, Turk. Down."

I can't go back to Skyloft, and the fearful ewe quiets and understands. Even a safe pen can be unbearable if too small.

 _Side by side, ewe and wolf_ , I think. _We'll help Link. We'll save the surface. We'll see all this world has to show. And…we'll try not to get killed by angry demons while we're at it. Or let angry demons kill anyone else for that matter._

"Turk." My voice is firm, and I tug at his feathers and nudge with my feet and knees.

He lets out a single big huff from his nose to show his displeasure. And keeps on flying up.

"Turk! Turkey!" My tone grows from firm to harsh, and from harsh to shrieking punctuated with slaps and kicks. He's always been stubborn, has always gone where he pleased, no matter what I did, so I always just let him. But even then he showed at least the barest hint of difference for me, flying moderately low over Skyloft when I wanted to get off, or leaning somewhat in the direction I wanted to go. But this is ridiculous! He isn't even _pretending_ consideration.

My hitting becomes harder, my fists and boots thumping against Turk's body. When my heart acts up and the next few strikes sting me more than the bird, I take to pleading.

"Please, _please_ , I don't want to go back up there, Turk. Please!"

And then something strange happens.

Turk goes completely stiff. His keen gaze glazes over, not quite like they did in the old days, when he was in his own world and not listening to me. No, this…iced over expression is far more than that.

"Turk…?" I start gently, patting him. "Turk, I'm sorry I hit, but…" I trail off, look around.

We're lowering altitude.

* * *

"Not to the mining compound— _he_ might be there. I don't want you anywhere near that demon. Go…wait, where…?"

Where are you taking me? is what I want to ask. But it's not like Turk could verbalize dissonance with me. I don't know why I'm bothering with speech at all, except that maybe it distracts me from the nervous flitter flutter in my chest.

No, it's not enough—those butterfly wings turn to claws.

"Ow!" I slap a hand around my neck, believing something, a bug perhaps, has bitten me. My palm meets nothing but the sleek gold collar. I trace the diamond-shaped jewel sitting in the hollow of my throat with a finger, and then move to the golden band circling around. The metal is cool and smooth, and most of the time I hardly notice it's there. But now, with this sudden tingling and itching and stinging, I can't help but notice it. It's like it's demanding my attention.

An uneasy feeling twists in my chest. I lower further on Turk's back until my chest presses into feathers, bracing against the buffeting wind and from the feeling assaulting me. As a precaution, I flatten my aura, thinking unpleasant, deflating thoughts. The dead Lizalfos come to mind.

"Where, Turk?" I ask quietly, a veil of somberness blanketing any waspish inclination I might have had. Another sting from the collar has me gripping my neck like I'm choking. Why is it—

I pause. My fingers curl over the collar.

He's always been able to find you, I tell myself. Sure, it took him longer when you flattened your aura, but he always found you eventually. No matter where you hid.

The collar strikes me with another sting, and I make the connection.

My lip curls. " _Son of a bitch!_ Of course he always finds me—he has a frickin' GPS attached around my neck! Turk! Turk, turn around! We need to land you somewhere safe. Turk! Listen to me!"

But my bird continues on, regardless of my protests. We fly towards the towering insignia of Hylia, the golden bathed wings stretching out as if in welcome. Panic sets in. We can't go that way. We'll lead him right to her and I don't know if it's time! Where's Link?

I scan the ground below but see not a trace of green, only sandy hues. They fly by faster and faster, a blur of wind and distance. We rapidly approach the Temple of Time, and a final wave of panic pushes me into desperation. That desperation pushes me off my bird; I crawl to the edge of him, intent on casting myself down.

Turk shakes the air with the magnitude of his alarmed squawk. He tilts his body sharply, causing me to roll back between his shoulder blades. I yell and I scream and I squawk and I bark, but no matter what I do to dispatch myself from the sky, Turk tilts so that I fall back neatly into the cradle of his wings and not to the ground. I think he's trying to make up for losing me beneath the cloud barrier in the first place, for letting me fall. But I'm not having any of it.

We pass the old, hollowed out tree clinging to the lone plateau just before the temple, and I know it's now or never. Turk is flying so low, his belly nearly scrapes the tip of the tree's husk. I take my chance. I stand.

Sensing my intentions, Turk ascends, perhaps in an attempt to dissuade me from jumping.

It doesn't work. With all the strength of my legs I push off, and Turk's shriek pierces the sky. The wind grabs me from all directions and gravity opens its arms for embrace. But no Loftwing is worth his salt unless he can catch up to his rapidly descending rider, and Turk seems stuck on proving his worth today. He dives for me, catching me by the ankle of all places. The crushing pinch of his beak tears a pained cry from me and I flail and scream uselessly. The sound of his awkwardly beating wings fills my ears. He is unbalanced with my weight dragging at his front and not sitting in his center. We nosedive, and Turk struggles to right us.

Our undignified squawks and screams announce our arrival to the temple. As we pass the threshold, I learn fallen rocks were not the only thing sealing the entrance. A white wall, transparent in its nature, barely has time to flare up before Turk and I crash through. Like the barrier from the Skyview Temple, it shatters like glass.

"Let go, just let go!" The whole world is upside down, and I'm not thinking when I scream those words.

The freaking bird actually let's go. Obeying the one time I'd rather he not.

And then I'm falling, falling. The impact of the ground doesn't hurt as much as it should thanks to adrenaline's buffer, and then I'm tumbling and rolling, the momentum of flight refusing to just leave me on the spot. The world rolls around me, my hips and shoulders taking the brunt from the stone of the temple bridge.

Then I am still, and it is quiet. I stagger to my feet, stumbling left and right.

I barely have enough time to move before a dark figure rushes at me. I roll and scramble on hands and knees, and the dark figure's palm slaps onto the stone I just evacuated. The ground and air itself seems to vibrate with some sort of energy, and sparks of blue magic fizzle from the figure's impact point.

Before I can process anything else, a shadow falls over me and eyes red as blood burn holes into my skin. "That's the third time you've broken a barrier meant to protect Her Grace! Where is the demon?! Have you led him to us?!"

It takes more than a moment for my brain to process who has spoken to me. Impa doesn't wait. She hauls me up by the front of my tunic with a roughed brown hand, her pale blonde braid swinging with her movement, her red glare growing more acidic by the millisecond.

"Impa, please! Release her!"

I freeze at that familiar voice, the effect so profound I struggle just to turn my head to the sound of softly tapping footsteps. Zelda runs across the stone bridge, harp in hand, her white dress and golden hair fluttering out behind her. I almost don't recognize her, though I knew what she would look like, though I knew who she really was—or is. With the sun shining down on her, washing her in warm light, she is the all the goddess she once was.

A cloud passes over, and the illusion fades. She is simply Zelda once more. But not the Zelda I remember.

Zelda skitters to a stop a few feet from where I stand, and I realize Impa's hand is no longer fisted in my tunic. I don't know when she let go—probably as soon as Zelda asked her to. But I can no longer bear the shadowing figure any mind. It is only Zelda I see, golden hair and blue eyes so familiar from my second life's childhood, now weighted by some unseen force. Her shoulders seem frail and slumped, and her head is angled downward like there's some great weight pressing on top of it. Her watery eyes hold a grief I can only guess at, something that had never been there before.

We stand there, staring. Unspeaking, unmoving. The mystical gears of the Gate of Time tick with a steady beat, the two smaller cogs, suspended in air and half eaten by a time rift flowing from some unknown dimension, working to turn the large central gear. The surreal blues and purples and whites of its designs glow behind Zelda, framing her in a sort of halo.

The gears' _tock, tock, tock,_ is the only thing stirring in the open air temple. The looming walls surrounding us are silent, and the dark chasm splitting the temple, spanned only by the lone stone bridge we stand on, swallows any stirrings of the wind.

But then Zelda's face crumples, the water brimming in her eyes spilling over, and the quiet spell is broken. She lets out a cry and runs at me. She throws her arms around my neck, bopping me in the head with the harp in the process, and sobs, her slight frame heaving and gasping against mine.

I remain standing like a statue, my face frozen in wide-eyed shock. Suddenly I get the feeling I should do something, or say something, but I don't know what. In my ignorance my hackles rise. "W-What's your problem?!"

Her tears wet my shoulder, and she won't stop shaking. Or sobbing. She chokes on bubbled up words; nothing comes out coherent.

I'm stiff as a board, too defensive and frightened by her reaction to feel bad about the sharp tone I use. "Can you stop?"

It takes her a few moments, but eventually Zelda composes herself. She steps back from me, cradling the harp in the crook of her elbow. She wipes under her weary-lined eyes. "I was so worried about you. Everyone was. We couldn't find you, and your Loftwing was missing too. I'm just…so glad…to see you." Her voice starts wobbling and I fear another outbreak.

"Uh," I interject loudly, hoping to stave off her tears. And then, once her words fully register, my face twists in disbelief. "Seriously?"

Her palm smacks into my shoulder, but it doesn't move me at all. Her brows knit over an offended glare. "Yes, 'seriously'! How can you say that? There were entire search parties scouring the skies for you!"

"Oh." My face remains blank. I can't seem to process what she's telling me, so I state the obvious instead. "I wasn't in the sky."

Zelda dabs the remaining wetness from her face with a long flowing sleeve of her dress. "Yes, I know that now, _thank you_." She snips the last two words, but then she wilts like a flower under too much sun and sighs. "I know a lot about you now…"

My heart stabs itself into a standstill and my mind goes blank. "…What?" The jeweled collar adds its own stab to my neck. I toss a frantic look behind me at the pile of rubble that will be less than useless at stopping Ghirahim. "Uh, actually, never mind. You need to get out of here. Like, now. Like, _right now_."

Zelda doesn't move, nor does she look away from me.

Impa comes out of her silent sentry stance and walks over to Zelda, puts up an arm as if to shepherd her. "Your Grace, we must depart through the gate."

Zelda shakes her head. "Not yet. Kya…"

"Um, yes yet." I dig my nails under the collar, into my skin, trying to get at the itch crawling there. "Ghirahim's kinda on his way. And by 'kinda', I mean he's definitely on his way, and could burst through that wall at any second. You might think I'm exaggerating"—I lift and flop my arms down in a guileless shrug—"but I'm not."

She steps forward, a strand of her golden hair slipping over her shoulder. She raises a hand, reaches for me, but hesitates and curls her fingers as if reconsidering. Conflict wavers in her gaze. "Kya, I can't imagine what you've been through these past weeks. But…"

"Where the hell is Link?" I look around sporadically, hands held up in frustration. "Isn't he supposed to be here? Aren't you supposed to give him the harp?"

Zelda's mouth opens and closes.

"You will listen to Her Grace when she speaks!" The Sheikah's red eyes cut me with another scathing glare. I stumble back, heart stammering in fright despite the steel I try to sneak into my spine. Her thin, pale eyebrows contrast against her tanned skin, accentuates her red eyes—both the two beneath her brows, and the one painted on her high forehead. The white, chalky teardrop painted under her left eye reminds me of someone. A jab from the choke collar reminds me more.

I stare at the Sheikah, eyelids stretched wide, the maniacal smile twitching at my mouth. "The Demon Lord will be here soon—and then the only thing anyone will be listening to is his laughter as he stabs you."

Impa's slanted eyes narrow to needled slits. "Are you threatening?"

"More like informing." I wish I sounded tougher, but my voice comes out a squeak. I shrink away from the tall Sheikah, suddenly too afraid to do any of the mouthing off I thought I would do. "Y-You should get going. I didn't mean to be here."

"I know," Zelda says, her eyes sad. "I called your Loftwing here. I wanted to see you."

Impa addresses Zelda. "Shall we go ahead and take her with us?"

I fall silent and don't move, caught like a rabbit in spotlight. Go with them? I rack my brain for what lies on the other side of that gate, and I come up with nothing. All I know is Zelda will end up in the Sealed Temple a thousand years ago, waiting for the arrival of her hero. Waiting, waiting… Haven't I done enough waiting? I'd rather be stuck with Ghirahim. Wait, what? No, how could I think that? My heart twists in warning. That was a dangerous thought, it tells me. _Don't_ think it again.

Zelda clenches a hand in the fabric over her heart. "I…I want to, but…" She looks to me, a resigned expression taking over. "Kya, I need you to stay strong. I need you to help Link."

I blink. "Um, okay. That's what I've been doing."

A tentative smile tugs at her mouth, but fear pushes it away. Her voice goes quiet. "Has… How badly has the demon hurt you?"

I stare at her in surprise. Even more surprising, I find myself unable to come up with an answer. "Um, how badly? Well, he threw me on a cactus earlier today. That was fun."

Zelda looks at me like she didn't hear right.

"Can she really be trusted with the demon?" Impa speaks hushed, like I'm not standing right here and can hear her.

"She can." Zelda's voice does not falter like her eyes do.

"If her soul truly has power comparable to yours…" Impa trails off.

I turn wide eyes to her. Did I hear right? "What?" My gaze snaps back to Zelda, and again, "What?"

"It will be all right, Impa. She knows. More than even I do."

My hearts stabs itself to stillness again, only this time there can be no distraction. "What?" My voice is rough, it barks demandingly.

"She knows what was, she knows what is…" Zelda looks to me, the blue depths of her eyes delving deep. "…and she knows what will be."

My bones seem to quiver, though I try to stay still as possible. I meet her stare, my dull-colored eyes piercing just as deep only, unlike hers, afraid of what they might find. My lip trembles, and I am barely able to whisper, "…And just how do you know that? Do you know—who I am? _What_ I am? Where I'm…from?"

It is the first time she will not meet my stare. She lowers her head and clutches her harp.

"If her soul is an equivalent she shouldn't be allowed anywhere near that demon. There's too much risk. Let's take her with us."

My whirling mind clogs to a stammer. I gawk at Impa.

"Her soul is more than that, more than what any of us could imagine."

I gawk at Zelda. And then back to Impa.

"If she could be used in your stead—"

"She is not alone," Zelda interrupts softly. "She is not alone, and it is that reason why any demon attempting to consume her soul would be obliterated. Even if she was…used. They would not win."

My hearts skips a beat and I freeze, my stare caught somewhere between Impa and Zelda.

"Kya…"

My head turns to the soft voice, and then I am looking into the sad, wearied eyes of Zelda.

"Kya," she says, and she sounds so tired, like she has the weight of all the world pressing down on her. "Kya, your God has not abandoned you."

Time itself seems to stop at those words. My vision goes white at the edges, my mind reels, and I stagger back. Suddenly I cannot breathe; suddenly there is a huge pressure on my chest.

"No matter what you do…"

Another step back.

"No matter where you go…"

Another, with a quivering knee threatening to give out.

"His Spirit will never leave you. So please…"

A resounding _Boom!_ fills the stone courtyard. Rocks explode out towards us, rolling off into the chasm, one wayward boulder scraping across the bridge and nearly hitting us, dropping off the edge just a few feet away.

Dark laughter echoes through the scattered dust and rubble. "I've found you~!" a voice calls out, far too musical and cheery. Ghirahim jumps from the dust cloud and lands at the foot of the bridge, brandishing a dark sword. His smile is vicious. "I just knew I could count on you, Kya darling."

I am too frozen to breathe, let alone speak. I stand facing the demon with Zelda behind me and Impa to my right. My eyes dart to the far left, to the shadowed entryway of the underground mining facility. I hope to see Link, to see green tunic, and blue eyes, and white sword. But the dark entryway stands still and silent, with not even the hint of rushing footsteps. The hero is nowhere near. "Well, _shit_ ," I breathe.

Impa and Ghirahim dash forward simultaneously, meeting in the center in a clash of metal and magic. A blue barrier flashes to life from Impa's palms, and she stands there and holds it as it is assaulted blow after blow from Ghirahim's dark sword. White sparks and _clang_ , _clang_ , _clang_ fill the air.

A shadow circles overhead.

My mouth drops open. "Turk! No, stay back!"

His eagle-like roar is followed by a diving swoop. Ghirahim ducks to avoid razor sharp talons, and then he twists and swipes at my bird. A stream of blood flows from Turk's leg, but he circles back for more regardless, his booming battle shriek filling the sky.

Ghirahim doesn't stand idle and wait for him to fly back around, and continues swinging his sword at the barrier like a madman. The barrier flares with bright flashes of light at every strike. Faintly, cracks start to form.

"Go! Now!" Impa cries, flinching from another blaring sword strike.

" _Don't let her leave_!" Ghirahim commands me in English and, right when he says it, my hand darts out and grabs the harp. My intent is to get the harp for Link so Zelda can leave unhindered but with a jolt I realize what it must look like, to grab at her just after Ghirahim has spoken. English did little to disguise what he so obviously wants, and Zelda looks at me in both alarm and confusion.

"Link," I say weakly, looking her in the eye and hoping she understands. I don't think she hears me over the sound of cracking barrier.

Her expression hardens. "I don't care what the goddess planned anymore—you're coming with me!"

And then she's pulling me via the harp. She yanks at me. I don't let go of the harp, but neither do my feet depart from stone. I cannot move. A tremor runs through my bones. The goddess planned _what_?

Turk's enraged cry tears the unspoken question apart. He flies high, a shadow against the sun, angling himself for another swooping attack.

Ghirahim glances at the diving Loftwing, eyes narrowing in venomous annoyance. He draws his sword from the barrier and readies it instead for my bird—and this time his sights are trained on the giant bird's head.

There is a scream from deep within me. It becomes caught in my chest and does not make it to my mouth. My hand springs free from the harp and Zelda crashes backward, fear printed in her expression. Her face is one of the last things etched in my mind before I turn and see Turk and that black blade.

And then everything goes white. A bright, hot white that blots out everyone and everything. A scream splits through the white air, as does the shattering of glass, and vaguely I realize the scream is coming from me.

My throat is raw when sight returns to me. Turk flounders high in the air, his feathers askew, his wings flapping frenetically, looking as if he's been hit by a ravaging gale. Below, on the bridge, both Ghirahim and Impa seem to have been blasted by something. The demon is crouched, having braced himself from a frontal assault. Meanwhile Impa, forced flat on her face from the explosion at her back, pushes herself up to her hands and knees.

I do not miss the slicing glare Impa throws over her shoulder at me. "You—! Look what you've done!"

A twisted smile illuminates Ghirahim's face, his laughter high-pitched with delight. He shoots forward with imperceptible speed.

Impa jumps to her feet, meeting Ghirahim's lunge with the flash of a smaller barrier, the magic pouring from one hand, its surface rippling with weakness. In her other hand appears a short single-edged blade in a shower of blue sparks. The small barrier gives, and the slender blade catches Ghirahim's dark sword. Metal screeches against metal, and Impa staggers, her sword arm shaking with strain.

Ghirahim does not shake. He does not strain. He grins elatedly, the thrill of anticipation of what he's about to do displayed for all to see. He's going to kill her. And he's looking forward to it.

The soles of Impa's footwear scrape across dry stone. She wobbles to the left and right, like she wants to dodge. But she cannot—doing so would let the demon through to Zelda.

My heart drops to my stomach. The hero is not here to save the day. I have to do something.

I rush forward.

"Kya, come back!" Zelda yells.

Her cry registers as no more than an afterthought in my mind, and I bodily throw myself between demon and Sheikah, slamming where their blades connect. The force parts their swords for a mere second, and then the _clang_ of another clash tells the futility of my action. It's as if they didn't even notice—they are focused entirely on each other. I roll where I hit the stone, huffing and puffing, lurching back up for a second try.

Ghirahim's free hand darts out and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me so hard it feels as if my scalp's tearing off. " _Master's busy, darling. Didn't I tell you to get the girl?_ " His English words are like knives hidden beneath a soft blanket, feigned pleasantry inching into the dangerous.

And then he pulls and throws me under his arm. I somersault head over foot before plopping into a pained heap a few feet away.

It doesn't matter. I have to do something. I try again. "St-Stop…!"

"Don't bother trying to fix it now!" Impa greets me with a swift kick, sending me flipping the other way.

I crash into Zelda's open arms, arms that warp around me and hold tight. I struggle, breathing hard, my heart hammering in my chest, my body heat making me red all over, but she does not let go. "No! No, it's not safe!"

I don't know if she realizes her caretaker is about to die.

Ghirahim snarls. "Filthy roach!" His leg flashes out, delivering a kick of his own to Impa's midsection. She flies backward, her back hitting and sliding across the bridge, blade still held up in a defensive position.

She rises as quickly as she fell, runs back in to meet him, intent on keeping him away. "Get to the Gate!" she yells hoarsely.

Zelda fights to keep me with her. "Impa!"

A scream.

My head is fuzzy and my vision is wavy. Heat seems to rise in watery currents all around me, exhaustion bears down on me, but through the haze I hear that scream louder than any gunshot from the Knowing Realm.

Impa kneels, clutching her bleeding side, struggling to get up.

The tip of Ghirahim's sword shines wetly. A smug smile spreads his lips. "I was certain I exterminated the last of your kind a millennia ago. Seems I missed a few. Oh, well. An easy fix."

Impa grips the hilt of her short sword so tightly her knuckles turn the color of bone. "You won't have Her Grace. I will protect her…until my death!" she shouts, raising her blade and driving it into the stone. A blue barrier flares forth, flickering, but holding.

Ghirahim all but giggles. "Duly arranged."

He strikes, again and again, each one a countdown to the end. The blasts from his sword echo in my head, the impromptu barrier splintering far too quickly, far too soon. I barely notice when Zelda pulls me from the ground. "Impa," she says weakly, her face white, watching her guardian make her last stand.

"Go!" Impa chokes on the word, blood seeping down her hip and into the fabric of her pants.

The red color soaks into my mind's eye, and with a surreal sense of horror I realize it's my doing. The barrier wasn't supposed to break like that. _I broke it._ Impa wasn't supposed to get hurt like this. _I led the demon here._ No one…no one was supposed to die today. _Too soon. He wasn't supposed to be here yet._

The sound of cracking glass and a splintering burst coincide with a cry of pain and a dark laugh. They bring me back into the moment. My arm snaps out and Zelda crashes backward, towards the Gate of Time, my action wordless, but intention clear. I whirl in time to see Impa hit the floor, in time to see that malicious smile spread over Ghirahim's face.

And then there is another shadow, and it is not Turk. Green arches up in my peripheral. White blade flashes above Ghirahim's head.

And just like that my priorities change.

I don't know why I do what I do. I'm panicking, not thinking straight. By the time my mind catches up, I'm already there.

" _Master_!" comes screaming out of my mouth. My palms slam into his shoulders, and then there is pain. I feel skin and muscle spilt from the top of my shoulder, curving down my shoulder blade, and slicing off at my waist. Pain, and then warmth and wetness.

A white gloved hand grips my forearm, drags me into red velvet. Ghirahim wraps me in steel arms and leaps back with me pressed to his chest. We flip in the air and the world turns on its head, righting when Ghirahim lands on his feet. I do not land on my feet. I lie limp in his grasp.

There is silence so deafening, not even the wind can distil it. Ghirahim grips my torn shoulder, pain escalating through the contact, shooting through my whole body. Yet he is the one to shout. " _You wretched little fool_!"

And with those words the stillness is broken. Turk shrieks somewhere above, Zelda screams, and Impa snaps unidentifiable curses.

I do not hear Link. I want to turn and look for him, to see if he's okay. I try to move, cannot. Shock encases pain, but does not give to mobility. My legs are as lead. I can manage only to shake, violently, in the demon's arms.

I hear a sword clatter to the stone. I hear a sword spirit chime in protest. When I realize Ghirahim still holds his blade, gripped in the fist at my waist, I know who dropped what, and I find myself agreeing with Fi. You better pick her back up, Link.

Ghirahim's other hand fists in my shoulder, as if he's trying to pull the split flesh back together with his fingers. Heat oozes from the wound, and something wet runs down my back, drips from the hem of my ratty tunic.

The edges of my vision start to go black.

Voices fill my head. Zelda, Impa. An explosion. And then quiet blankets once more. The entire time Ghirahim does not move. He kneels with me, my head resting at his chest, rising and falling with the increasing speed of his breaths. My legs are sprawled out awkwardly behind me. Now, when I try to move them, they do not even twitch.

"Curse you…" Ghirahim's voice is loud in my ear, though he does not yell. He speaks quietly, the sound rumbling in his chest and hissing from his mouth. I cringe inward, thinking he is speaking to me. But then he continues. "I blame myself. I should have dealt with you the last time, but I was…soft. I won't make that mistake again. I swear to you, boy, the next time we meet, I'll make the affair so excruciating you'll deafen yourself with the _shrill sound of your own screams_!"

A flurry of diamonds, black and silver, erupt around us. The world whirls, and hot air becomes cold.

"Kya." Ghirahim breathes into my ear. His sword clatters to the floor, shatters into black diamonds. "Kya, speak to me!"

I cannot answer him.

He yells at me, but strangely, his voice steadily grows quieter, smaller, like he is getting far away from me, though I know he still holds me.

As the world fades out, as it bleeds into darkness and release from pain, I hear Zelda's voice once more, whispering somewhere from the back of my mind.

 _Your God has not abandoned you, so please…_

 _please…_

… _don't abandon yourself_.

* * *

 **A/N: That fight sequence was originally a lot shorter, but Link wasn't there on time and so it had to be extended. It gave me the most trouble. (I wish it was extended in the game, though. It was one of my favorite scenes.)  
**

 **Everyone was so worried about Turk. But it's okay, he only got nicked. Kya, on the other hand, was not so lucky.  
**


	18. whispers

**A/N: Thank you** **Mokki Takashi,** **Moon ninja Luna, Meta-Akira, Voidlash, Guest** (Sorry about the cliffhangers, but I can't help myself! Muhaha. Just kidding, that's just how they play out in my head.) **, Alter Ego Bob, Pineapple** (Yes, indeed. Very few of us are truly lucky.), **Bluebadger** (And more development coming! I hope you'll like it.) **, Ambiguous Cake, Maybe** (Your reviews indeed fill my heart with rainbows! XD) **, and Guest** (I'm very sorry for the wait. I'm fine, thank you. Life has been busy, is all) **.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 18**

I'm falling asleep. I'm waking up.

I can't tell.

I stand in a forest, in a clearing surrounded by trees and shrubs, all of which is engulfed in white fire. But there is no smoke, and there is no skin-searing heat—only warmth, only clear air. Everything is washed in white light.

The leaves and branches sway to the breeze, as if it's a peaceful day, as if there is no fire. Is it fire at all? I wonder and walk up to it, to a sapling dancing with the flames. I touch it, and it wraps around my hand like grasping fingers. But it does not burn. It is only warm and somehow…familiar.

I reappear in the center of the clearing, the white fire reaching for me, whispering all round me. I cannot understand the hushed voice speaking to me, though I feel that I should.

 _Whispers, whispers like the sound of the rain. They come from fire that does not burn._

The feeling that I am forgetting something very important disturbs me, causes me to want to curl in on myself.

 _Has not…_

… _abandoned you._

I wake up. I wake to a dark, wide corridor. I am carried in tightly curled arms, am pressed into a velvet covered chest, rising and falling with deep, controlled breaths. Whoever carries me moves carefully, muscles taut.

"Get out of the _way!_ " seethes a sharp voice above me, echoes slamming into the walls.

There is sound of small feet scurrying away, and then the gentle yet hurried gait resumes.

Blackness takes me once more. In the darkness I see Zelda, first in her raspberry colored dress that she had been so proud of, and then in her white dress. A dress that weighs her down, pulls at her shoulders and her smile, and makes her droop with a world weariness I had never seen in her before. Those purplish shimmering bracelets and hair clasps seem there to fasten her to her role. Her eyes are sad, tired, and—looking at me—regretful. I don't understand why. What happened to the Zelda of Skyloft? What happened to the girl who chased me from lazy stupors and good-naturedly scolded me for daydreaming through my life?

I think of Skyloft. I think of how trapped I felt there. And then I think of how peaceful and safe it was. Was it a prison, or was it truly a sanctuary? But I felt so alone there. Though I wasn't. I wasn't alone. The people of Skyloft cared about me, they looked for me. Link and Zelda…

 _They fell looking for you…fallen into the jaws of demons._

Blackness swallows Zelda and Skyloft whole.

My watery eyes peel open to the sting of bright halls, to stained glass and glowing etchings I cannot read. My eyelids fall like lead against the brightness. When they lift themselves once more, it is to a shadowed room of red curtain and rhombus patterned stone. There is a lump clogging my throat and water remains in my eyes. I am lying on my stomach, my cheek pressed into crimson sheets. I try to push myself up.

"Don't move," a sharp voice tells me, a cold hand on my burning shoulder. Then, louder, to the room, says, "Where the devil is that stupid lizard?!"

Pain suddenly erupts from my shoulder. I choke on a gurgled cry, and darkness closes in on my vision.

The world spins on a nighttime carousel with no lights. It wavers, and rises, and falls, and I fear I've dropped off the edge of the sky, into the murky clouds below, growling with static and thunder.

A loud crash brings me back, along with the sharp voice again. "Give me the damn gauze! Hurry, hurry, you wretched fool, before she bleeds out!"

When I wake up again, it is to ear-piercing screams. Slowly, with a burn forming in my throat, I realize the screams are mine. A freezing hand grips my shoulder, and hot liquid that can only be blood seeps from my wound in a wide, steady stream. I thrash and struggle, or try to. A heavy weight settles on me.

"Don't move," growls the voice. My mind clears briefly to realize who it is. Ghirahim.

"M-Master—no, I— _ackngh_!" My words become caught in my throat, in my screams, drowning in tears and saliva. Something stabs me, over and over, in my shoulder, and then there is a pulling sensation akin to string slithering through my wound. Another scream, sounding almost inhuman, tears through the room. I almost don't recognize it as mine, though my throat feels the scalding sting of it.

"It's almost over, _hold still_." Ghirahim's voice is strained and deep, sounding like he is speaking through clenched teeth.

The stabbing in my shoulder continues. It is halfway down, inching its way to my waist. My screams echo each bite of metal, profess agony at every burning pull of string.

"Die!" I scream, slamming my face into the sheets. "Just let me die!"

" _Be silent_!" Ghirahim all but roars. His fist tightens at my neck, keeping me still. "Shii! That numbing potion better be ready!"

"Here, my lord." Shii rushes to the bedside, uncorking a bottle. She pushes it to my face. "Drink, you must drink."

The smell, acidic and sharp, hits me as soon as the bottle is opened. I cringe from it. But the pain searing in my back is greater, and I do as told. The putrid, burning taste makes my eyes well and I nearly choke. Pain forces me to swallow.

Shortly after, the world spins again, and darkness rises.

Disembodied voices rumble and fade, loud then quiet. I'm falling. I'm standing. I don't know. Where I am. When I am.

My heart quickens when I think I hear my mother's voice, moving away, her heels clicking down the hall. Every fiber of me wants to go after her, to reach and cry out to her, but it is with every fiber I find I am paralyzed. I am trapped, floating in a blackness I cannot escape. It is under me, around me, above me, with no end in sight—no sight at all. I cannot swim through it, cannot claw upwards for the surface; I cannot move, I cannot cry out. It hurts; pain ricochets through me. The distress is so acute, I stop breathing. Stop breathing, and wish for it all to go away.

A voice calls out to me, muffled and distant, so distant I almost cannot hear it. It is as if I am listening through a wall of water. " _Breathe!_ " it says, coming into focus for but a moment, piercing like a blade through the deafening dark. " _Breathe, damn you!_ "

I know the voice, but suddenly cannot place it. Only after I try do I realize I am breathing again, somehow, in this underwater abyss.

" _Kya, you are not permitted to die. Do you hear me?!_ "

Who is Kya? I ask, but no answer comes. That's not me. That's not my name. My name is…

My name was…

Light flickers from above, filters down into the dark. The glow of it wavers in these hushing undercurrents. It carries with it blurred images and subdued sound. The soft pings of a piano. A pale haired man wearing a long white coat over a dark suit, slender fingers dancing across the ivory keys. My father. He comes home so late; he works so hard keeping his patients healthy. But every now and then he finds the time to play us a lullaby, to send us on our way to peaceful sleep. Everything goes quiet when he plays. The blare of the city streets down below is silenced. Even my little brother, shuffling through comics and blankets in the next room over, stills to listen.

Those melodious notes echoed softly to the dark of my room, as they echo softly now, in this strange dark that has me trapped.

I want to call out for my dad. I can't. I wanted to hug him before I left. I didn't. I didn't get to say goodbye, not to him, not to anyone.

Stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

More light, more images. Memories of a life that once was.

I stand with two other people in a barren hallway. The lights are dim and the floors are polished. It is after school, on the very last day. I smile viciously, pushing my crooked glasses up my nose. Blood runs down my temple from the cut above my brow, caused by the long nails of a high-leading girl. My dark hair is wild, flaring in my face.

My friend, the one who taught me to speak with my hands, stands in front of me. She is speaking with hers now. " _Stop!_ " she signs, bringing her right hand down into her left palm in a chopping motion. " _Stop! Stop!"_

I wince, wiping the blood from my brow with the back of my hand. "Sorry, Lezzie. They were asking for it." And it was true. That entire clique of girls should have known not to make fun of Lezzie because she was hard of hearing. They should have known I wouldn't have stood for it. Though I was quiet and mostly kept to myself, I had a reputation for my angry impatience regarding bullshit. They had fair warning, and I wasn't sorry. Not for them. Only sorry that I had inadvertently upset Lezzie.

Lezzie keeps on signing, her face drawn into a troubled frown. Her dove brown eyes swim with distress, her thin lips quiver. Her shiny dark hair is pulled back into a smooth bun. Her faded purple blouse and long jean skirt have not a wrinkle in them. They clash so heavily with that agonizing expression.

A hand claps onto my shoulder, and I turn to find an equally vicious smile gleaming out of a dark face.

The friend I used to have…with a streak of maliciousness to match my own.

Her smile does not lessen, even as she regards Lezzie. "We did what we had to, dear. It wasn't just you they were bothering. Poke a sleeping bear one too many times, and, well…" She smiles, her white teeth a dazzling contrast to the warm brown of her skin. "You saw what happened. Come now, stop crying; it's over. Here, here's a tissue." She pulls a handkerchief out of her skinny designer purse.

I look down at her heels, wondering how in the heck she just fought in those. "Nikki…seriously? Would've been easier to kick 'em off."

She follows my gaze, and then shrugs, dusting off imaginary remnants of the fight from her sleek green dress and little black jacket. Her maroon dyed hair is as glossy as ever, she needn't run a hand to smooth it. She does so anyway. "Well, girls, if we can make it to graduation without breaking anymore noses I'd be impressed."

Lezzie wipes under her eyes with the lace handkerchief. In the most gentle voice, Nikki tells her to keep it. How she can be a lady of class, yet still fight like that, I'll never know. I envy it, actually. She is a blend of the green valley and the cutting river, merged seamlessly together. Not jagged and unbalanced like mine. I want to be like her. I… _wanted_ to be like her.

Yes, wanted. Past, not present. That didn't happen just now. When was that? So long ago…

Light sharp as a blade cuts down into the dark.

Skyloft floats on easy breezes, the people going about their day, meandering so slowly in comparison to the hustle and bustle of the world I had left.

"Would you like some tea, dear?" Batreaux's voice echoes from the dark waters, a flash of him holding out a saucer and cup disappears before I can open my eyes.

For a moment I see Zelda, in her Skyloft dress, her hands on her hips. "You need to wake up. You're letting your life pass you by! _Again._ " And then she is gone too.

Garbled voices shake the darkness, shards of light tear through it, raining like stars from a black sky.

" _Tha—ank you?_ " Beedle turns his red nose to me, not stopping his fierce pedaling for a second. "That sounds interesting. Does it mean something?"

Oh… That's right. I had climbed up to Beedle's air shop when it first opened. Was I fifteen or sixteen at the time? I can't remember. Neither can I remember the conversation leading up to me saying those English words.

I told him the meaning, hands clasped roughly at my waist, waiting for him to believe or disbelieve, to scold or ignore. He did none of those. He smiled through his sweat and said it had a nice ring to it, calling, " _Thaaank you!_ " before I walked towards the door.

In the darkness a smile tugs at me. Hey…someone did ask, someone did care. Right before he tried to drop me through that trap door, the jerkass. But I had spread my legs out on either side of the sudden opening, throwing a sharp grin over my shoulder at him. "Heh! Knew you were gonna do that. Bye!" And then I jumped out the door, spread-eagle, into Turk's waiting… No, I belly flopped into the pond. Turk was busy stuffing his beak with berries from a stray akkaka bush. He didn't even bother looking over at the splash I made.

Pain cuts streaks with the light, blowing the darkness away, bringing me back to air, to earth, to consciousness.

My eyes peel open to red silk, to a dark room, washed in the glow of firelight. I lie on my stomach, my left arm hanging haphazardly over the edge of the bed. Through dull eyes I see Ghirahim, standing to the side of me, still as a statue, staring at his blood-soaked gloves. He stares and stares. They are not white anymore. The rusting color bleeds down into the still-white of his forearms.

Suddenly he rips them off and throws them across the room. They hit the far wall with a slap. "Clean her," he says without looking at anyone, voice strangely rough.

Shii, Essil, and an unknown Lizalfos appear from the wall, standing unseen until moving into the center of the room. They converge on me, and a part of my mind says to be afraid, to stiffen. But I find I cannot. It is worse now that I am awake, now that I should be able to move. Tears well in my eyes, and my throat clenches painfully, allowing only a slight whine to rise.

Ghirahim pauses before the door, his red-stained hand on the knob. For a moment he seems to shake; subtly the knob rattles. Then in a flash he wrenches the door open and slams it shut behind him, without looking back.

"It will be all right, human." Shii runs a claw through my hair, in complete opposition to the sternness of her face. "The worst is over."

The unknown Lizalfos and Essil share a few rasped words in their native tongue. They both leave the room and then they come back. The nameless Lizalfos holds open the door for Essil, who comes bearing a pail of steaming water, small white towels thrown over the edges. She sets it beside the bed. Her watery eyes spill over, but she keeps moving, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. "I—I will avoid it as best I can."

She speaks of the curving gash running from my shoulder to my waist. How did I get it again? I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember.

I jolt when the warm terry cloths touch me. The movement sends a wave of pain coursing through my entire body, starting from my back and spreading to my fingertips and toes. " _Hnn—!_ "

Shii swiftly barks something at the other Lizalfos, who then shuts the door firmly.

"Do not cry out!" Shii pushes a scaly hand in my face, as if that would stop the sound. Her yellow eyes stretch wide, zip to the closed door Ghirahim had gone through. "He mustn't hear anymore. I fear what he would do. The last I saw such an expression on his face was when he nearly killed everyone in the throne room. We will try to get you clean as possible without hurting you, but if we do, please, for the love of your precious goddess, bite your tongue."

"D-Don't say such things to her."

"Essil?"

"It will be all right." Essil's voice becomes forceful for the first time since I've known her. "We will be careful; we will not hurt her. She has hurt enough." And then, after a moment's hesitation, she says, "…Give her more potion."

The acidic smell and foul taste quell the rising pain, and once again I drift off to sleep.

* * *

Dull, throbbing pain pulls me from dreamless sleep. Hushed voices filter to my ears.

"We need more red potion," rasps the tell-tale voice of Shii.

Essil's gentle tenor follows. "T-That was the last bottle."

"What? You cannot be serious!"

"L-Lord Ghirahim used most of it during…during the sewing."

"Then more must be made."

Essil's scaled feet scuff on the hard floor. "Ingredients are lacking, I'm afraid. The scouts have reported some maniac in green traipsing through the land, d-devouring all the red flowers. Their rarity—"

"I know about their rarity." Shii's voice strains. I think I hear her teeth grind. "We will have to come up with something, then. Anything."

Their footsteps recede along with their voices, a door softly clicks, and I am left alone.

I want to laugh, knowing exactly who's been eating the red petals, but the weight of heavy daze keeps me from doing so.

I fall back into sleep, and this time dreams of green and flashing blade flicker in my mind's eye. I shudder, causing the distant throbbing in my shoulder to become stronger. The pain threatens to bring me back, but I will myself to stay under sleep's saving escape, if only for a bit longer. That's how I always tried to escape pain, wasn't it? Sleep, sleep… Look up at the sky and sleep.

I see behind my eyelids a boy with dark blond hair, tousled by the wind, smiling a lazy smile. Clouds drift by his head. He was almost as lost in dreams as me.

That image is replaced by a man in green tunic worn over rough chainmail, his blond hair hidden by a tapering cap. He looks over his shoulder, the red sun blazing behind his head. His blue, blue eyes are shadowed and narrowed into a glare. He reaches for the hilt of his sword. Gone is the smile of carefree days. No, those days were taken from him just as surely as they were taken from me. Forced into being a hero. Forced to shoulder a burden no one should ever have to take on alone.

My shoulder stings, and it tugs at me, tries to bring me to the surface of wakefulness. With the added consciousness, my thoughts grow sharper. Link, Link… He hadn't meant to cut me. No, it wasn't meant for me. Poor Link. I heard his blade drop. I hope he doesn't think he killed me.

 _Poor Link_ , my mind echoes. Dancing on the goddess's strings. Does he know he's her puppet yet? The first of so many incarnations, so many more to come…

The image of Link flickers, his appearance differentiating, but still retaining some likeness. Some will have darker hair, some lighter. Some more angular in the face, some softer…but all with the same unbreakable spirit of the hero.

Unbreakable… I frown into the darkness. Are you truly unbreakable, Link? Doesn't it hurt, shouldering it all alone? With not a human companion to share your pains? Being used in a plan you know nothing about? A puppet on a goddess's string…

Something tickles in the back of my mind. Goddess. Plan. The goddess's plan. What had Zelda said at the bridge…? It wasn't about me, was it?

I just about grasp it, just about have a hold on some idea when it slips through my fingers. A noise drifts into the quiet. Is that piano music I hear? It sounds in the distance, muffled through the walls. It is fast and sharp, almost angry. It fades away. I strain to listen for it to no avail. When I go to lift my head, I find I cannot move. The effects of pain and potion once again leave me paralyzed. With great effort I crack open my eyes, but that is all. My brain sends out commands, only for them to go unheeded.

Panic builds, my breath hitches. Screams come out little more than high-pitched whimpers. I'm trapped in my own body.

I don't know anyone has heard me until the door slowly creaks open. The snap of fingers startle me. Low burning fire flares bright and hot, and I squint from the sudden intensity. Just as suddenly, cold fingers trail lightly down my back. From that cool touch comes a wave of calm, as if someone has transferred tranquility through contact alone. I catch the tail end of a murmured chant, spoken in a tongue I can't understand. Muscles relax, movement returns, and panic dies as if it had never been at all.

"Wassit?" My tongue feels thick and dry, my words slur. I peer at the pale figure standing over me, recognition slow occurring. "…Ghir—Masser?"

There is no response but a weight settling next to me. The bed gives and my hip slides into Ghirahim's. His fingers resume their trail along my back, making their way onto the ridges of sutures.

"S-Stop," I whisper, tensing from pain.

To my surprise, he does. And then he speaks, his tone oddly subdued. "How can you be so utterly stupid? You almost died, little fool."

The quiet, scolding way he speaks stirs shame more than any shout could have. I hide my face in red sheets.

"Tell me, what were you thinking when you did it? Did you think me so weak I couldn't take one strike from that wretched boy? Did you think I wouldn't have moved out of the way had you not intervened?" He leans close to my ear, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "What was it, little bird? What went through your mind?"

I show my face reluctantly, struggle to make my tongue work. "Nothing…" is all I manage to get out, a dying word escaping only on a breath.

Pleasantly cool fingers sweep my forehead, shift lightly through my hair. The motions repeat. I don't know how long he does it. Long enough for the fire in the stone holders lining the walls to dim to their usual glare. I don't know when he stops, or when he leaves. Sleep blackens the time in-between.

But when I briefly wake, I swear I hear my father playing the piano, somewhere very far away.

* * *

It doesn't seem like much time passes, but then, how could I tell? Through drugged sleep, I keep waking to darkness, penetrated only by the dim of fire. Shii or Essil periodically come in with water and broth, and to make me sip that disgusting potion. I find the effects are worth it though, because if I don't drink it…

My shoulder hurts. Less so with the numbing potion, but still. It aches and throbs and burns. I can feel it sting, can feel every stitch pull when I move. More than that, I am miserable all the way around. All other parts of me soon join in the aching.

I can no longer lie here, though the plush mattress tries to lull me back to sleep. Daring to lift my head a fraction, I look around the room that isn't mine. Red draperies spill like waterfalls at the stained glass windows, framing bright blue, scarlet, and purple geometric designs—diamond shapes and triangles. How pretty that glass would look, if only there were brilliant streams of sunlight to shine through. But in all the time I've been here, I have only seen one instance of true sunlight in this dark world.

I push my face through the silky bedsheets, resurface to view the other side of the room. Mirrors, mirrors, and wardrobes, and a vanity, and carvings of mighty beasts I cannot identify. Columns built into the walls arch up into a ridiculously high ceiling. Gingerly I turn from my stomach to my side, wincing from both a stab of pain from my shoulder and from the stiffness settled in my joints—a stiffness that lets me know I've been lying here for more than a couple days. More red silk falls from an expansive canopy, pours into the overly large, circular bed I rest in. I glance from one end to the other. This could easily fit more than five full-grown Skyloftians—with space in between.

The draperies, the sheets, even the pillows (save for a few raven purple decorative ones pushed up against the headboard). Red. Red, red, red like blood all around. I think I know someone's favorite color. Only gold accents, scattered diamond trimmings, the dark wood of the furniture, and the gray of the stone walls break the red monochrome.

Not my room, I remind myself. This must be…his room. His bed.

Why am I in it?

My legs slide off the side, I sit up with the gusto of a ninety year old woman, and with a jolt through my heart I realize I am not in my clothes. Not my clothes, but instead in a gown of loose white silk, with little straps about as thick as my finger over my shoulders.

Where are my pants? My tunic? My _underwear_.

I sit there, my mouth drawn into a severe line. Okay. I look gross, I feel gross, and now I know someone's seen me in all my gross glory. How nice.

And white. I mean, it's standard sleeping gown color, but I'm sure—No, I _know_ I was a bloody mess earlier.

I look over myself, not seeing red but knowing by the sticky feel that Essil and Shii didn't get it all. And how could they? I wouldn't want them to. Save us all the indignity.

Ugh, I desperately need a bath, a shower, something.

Pulling myself straight sends a spike of pain down my back. Carefully craning my neck to look over my shoulder, I freeze when I catch what little sight of the sutures I can. What appears to be black wire ties down puffy, angrily reddened skin. With the stiff mechanical slowness of a doll, I return my gaze forward. Okay, best pretend I didn't see that…monstrosity…back there. Were those even real stitches?

The stone floor has a stately rhombus pattern about it, and it is cold against the pads of my feet. My shoulder cries as I stand, and I stutter on my first few steps. The door is not locked.

I expect a never-ending hallway to be on the other side. I am greeted instead by a short hall leading into a huge, circular room of beige stone. Much like the room I just left, columns protrude from the walls, curving up to a domed ceiling. Tapestries embroidered with the dark emblem of an upside-down Triforce decorate what little free space there is up on the high walls. Lower, walls that do not house mysterious doors and other branching hallways instead hold built-in shelves lined to the brim with withered-looking books and scrolls. More scrolls and books litter the floor, strew across the flat and wide steps that lead down into the center floor's subtle indention. It is there I see the demon lord, sitting on one of three cream-colored lounges. He is bent over a book open in his lap, his chin propped up in his left palm, while his right splays on a page, moving along the words. Fire crackles in a wide hearth, casting flickering shadows over his white and red visage.

"…Should you really be up?" His sudden voice startles me. He doesn't look up from the book.

"Uh…" I squirm, feeling self-conscious in the shimmery gown. "I—I need to use the…bathroom?"

Either he doesn't catch the uncertainness in my tone or he doesn't care. He still doesn't look up from the book. He lazily lifts a hand and points to a door.

I am quick to retreat to it, if only to get out of his presence.

The door clicks shut, and my back leans against it—only for me to flinch and lean off my left side. It doesn't stop me from wondering what in the world is up with Ghirahim. I've never seen him so…down. Irritated, yes. Angry, heck yes. But never have I seen him so…dejected. What the heck caused…

Oh, wait. The Gate of Time exploded. With his precious spirit maiden on the other side.

The soft echo of trickling water brings the contents of the room to the forefront of my mind. With gawking, hungry eyes I stare at the bathtub. It is bigger than the one in Skyloft, taking up a third of the room. It is all marble stone lined with veins of greenish gray. Nearly everything in the room is of the same stone, except the dark wood cabinets, but even those are polished to a shiny veneer. Water flows over a speckled black and gray granite slab into the giant tub, spanning proudly over raised steps.

I approach the water, holding out a trembling arm. I don't realize how cold I am, or how chilly the air of this castle is, until the water's wafting steam hits my palm. Unable to resist, I stick my hand in, and am immediately tantalized by the warmth seeping into my skin. I…I haven't had a proper bath in weeks. Maybe months. If I could just slip in for a few minutes…

I snatch back my hand. Yeah, I think sarcastically. Yeah, good thinking, Kya. Use the pissy demon lord's bath without permission. Because he totally wouldn't drag your naked butt out by your hair, kicking and screaming. Pink creeps up to my face and ears just thinking about the humiliation such a scene would cause. Without intending, my nose crinkles in preparation for the baring of teeth, rage pricking in my pounding chest. Dammit. One bath. I just want One. Lousy. Freaking. Bath. Is that so wrong? Why should I be punished for something like that? If anything, I should be punished for smelling bad! He should _want_ me to be clean. That stupid, arrogant, demonic prick! I took a sword for him!

Before I can put a rein on my temper, I've stomped out into the central room. "I smell like a dead rat!"

Ghirahim looks up from his book, brows raised, frown pulling at his mouth. "Did you not just come from the bathing room?"

I falter. I don't know what response I was expecting, but it wasn't that. Confusion smothers anger. "Uh…"

"Are you incapable of washing yourself?"

I stagger back. "No! I mean, yes! I mean, I'm…allowed?"

His attention returns to the pages. "Go take a bath, little bird. I can smell you from here."

Hesitance does not leave my stride, and I stumble back into the bathroom, unbelieving of Ghirahim's sudden…benevolence.

A spike of need sends me to the toilet, which is just as fancy as the rest of this room. I actually feel awkward using it. I grit my teeth. Tch. Not even in the same room and he's making me feel weird.

But all that is forgotten when I slide into the embrace of warm water, gown left in a crumpled heap at the steps. Blessed heat envelops me, soaks down into my very bones, soothes stiff joints and tense muscles. At first I am so overwhelmed by the wonderfulness I do not move. But then, I attack my skin and hair with zest. I grab at glass bottles of gels and ivory containers of soap, all found in neatly carved crevices around the perimeter of the tub. They have no labels, or any indications of their fillings, and I identify what I can on scent alone. In the midst of indecision, I shrug, and end up using a bit of each. They smell good, so in the end what does it matter? Although, there are more than a few that smell oddly of silver polish.

Skin scrubbed and hair squeaked clean, I wade to a corner of the bath and curl up, my right shoulder pressed into a crook, my forehead planting on the side of the tub, nose just over the water's surface. And then I just sit there, basking in a comfort I have been denied for weeks. Fully clean. Finally cleared of sweat and grim. The soapy buckets can't compare—though that doesn't negate my gratitude to Shii. She did what she could, did what she didn't have to do.

I don't know how long I stay wrapped in my liquid cocoon.

Apparently too long.

The door slams open, and I jerk upright, the sudden movement eliciting a stab of pain throughout my back. And then there is the demon in the doorway, a look of panic—wait, what? No, that can't be right. I blink and it is gone, and I wonder if it was ever there. All too familiar rage settles in its place now. Ghirahim clenches his teeth and brings up a fist, throwing it down as if casting down an imaginary object. "Your aura deflated to nothing. Nothing! Do you know how long you've been in here? You're ruining your skin! And your _shoulder!_ "

He walks purposely towards me.

My eyes widen. "No, no, no!" I hunker closer to the edge of the tub, hiding my bare body behind the stone. "Whoa, just—just back off! _Don't look at me_!" My voice climbs to a breathless shriek.

Ghirahim stops, giving me a look torn between irritation and incredulity. "…Who do you think dressed you? Who do you think sewed your shoulder back together? Who do you think?! I've seen you, Kya. There's nothing for you to hide from me."

My mouth drops with every word out of his. "You—you?"

He crosses his arms, and speaks slowly. "Undressed you. Sewed you. Dressed you. Yes."

"But Essil, and Shii…"

"Helped."

My jaw clamps back together, my mind spins. I shake my head, trying to clear the fog still present from the numbing potion. A memory, like a spark blowing at the back of my brain, shoves forth the recollection of blood and pain and ripping cloth. "I…I'm never seeing my tunic again, am I?"

Ghirahim provides a flat look. "You can see its ashes in the hearth. Now"—He yanks open a cabinet under the sink, pulls out a thick, cream-colored towel—"Get out."

And then he just stands there, towel in hand.

I hold out my hand with expectance.

He stares back at me wholly unimpressed, as if I'm the biggest child in the world.

"Oh, come on!" I snap in half accusation, half plea. "Just let me hide my shame!"

He glares, tossing the towel to me. "The only thing you have to be ashamed of is that hideous wound on your back." And then he turns around in a flourish, leaving me to gawk in stunned silence. He turns his head slightly. "Are you out yet?!"

Knowing his lack of care for personal boundaries, I unfold the towel and hold it out like a screen before daring to stand. Trying to be fast, wobbly legs raise me out of warm water, my prickling skin bemoaning the loss, and I stumble that first step. My knee gives out and hits stone, I lurch forward.

Ghirahim whirls around and is there before I can so much as blink, catching me before I can catch myself. He hisses through his teeth as if he's the one who just slammed his kneecap on the side of the tub. "Little…!"

I sag in his hold. "Just say it…"

"Fool!"

I sigh.

He readjusts his grip, helps me to stand. Before I can process it, he's at my back, pulling at the towel. I clutch the thick fabric at my chest, preventing it from falling too far. His fingers ghost over the sutures—or maybe I should call them train tracks—lining me from my shoulder blade to the curve of my waist. I hear his breath hitch. "You've _ruined it!_ "

"What?" My face twists. "No, I didn't. It's not—"

"You've softened it! Your skin's swelling!" His voice bounces off the marble tiled walls, and his fingers, with surprising gentleness, curl around the torn, puckered flesh.

"Ack!" I flinch away, spinning so my front faces him.

His glower burns with a dark fire. "I thought I told you to mind your shoulder!"

I cannot blink; my shock freezes me. The anger he's showing is not one I'm used to dealing with. Not from him. This anger…this anger is one I usually got from Zelda, scolding me for not doing my best, or for not taking care of myself. "Um, I—um, no, you didn't. You just asked if—"

"Well, it was implied!"

"—I was capable of washing myself."

"To which you've proven you can't, little fool!"

My lips press into a tight but unsure line, indignation sparking but not catching fire. "Yeah, well," I mutter next in English, " _sue me_."

He pauses, head tilting in confusion and eyes narrowing the same. "What does that mean?" he asks, curiosity dampening his ire, if only slightly.

"Uh," I struggle, "that…that actually doesn't have a Hylian equivalent." With the flare of anger relighting in his dark eyes, I scramble to think of a way to translate the Knowing Realm's court of law, but my mind is not fast enough, and I blurt out, "Uh, I guess the closest meaning would be 'bite me.'"

I immediately do an inward cringe. Yeah. That's good. Take a sarcastic, indifferent comment and turn it to one more insulting. That's sure to stub the flow of his wrath.

But, to my surprise, he does not react with rage, but with a mingled inquisitiveness. "Why would I want to bite you?" he asks, as if he hasn't before.

"…Because I'm clean now and don't taste as bad?" I answer slowly, unsurely. Disturbance over the thoughtless response blooms a little too late. Would have helped it if occurred before the words left my mouth. Thanks brain. No more potion for you.

The quiet huff of laughter is not what I expect, and inexplicitly soothes my frazzled nerves. Without me knowing my shoulders relax, and the sting in the left one lessens.

"Go back to the room, little bird." He gestures towards the door. "I'll get Shii to see to your bandages."

I am apprehensive to return to a room that is in all technicalities his, but I do so anyway as not to spoil the sudden gentleness I'm in disbelief at seeing. I blame my slow steps on my wound, and he does not bark at me to hurry. In fact, scarcely heard is the soft hum of approval directed at my carefulness. 'Scarcely heard,' and so I convince myself I didn't hear it.

I stand in the red room awkwardly in nothing but a towel, mind still processing the turn of events when Shii raps lightly and enters with white strips of cloth draped on her arm and a bottle of green numbing potion tucked in the other. She says nothing, only motions for me to lower the towel, which I do but keep the front gripped tightly for modesty, and begins swabbing the swollen aching slash with the potion before wrapping it with steady, cautious movements.

When it is halfway wrapped, she speaks. "Stanger things have not happened here, human, since you came to us."

I turn my ear towards her. "What?"

She sighs, and then grumbles, "My lord is not a lenient being. Not usually." She sees my confusion in one of the many golden framed mirrors and points to a bare spot on the wall. "You see that wall, human? A mirror was once there. Was. In the chaos following your wound, Essil rushed in here with the healing supplies my lord commanded of her, and in her haste she knocked it over and it smashed to smithereens. My lord likes his mirrors…" I go to scoff and roll my eyes at this, but then Shii continues with: "…and he has killed over less severe infractions."

The little smile that was forming over the silliness of Ghirahim's vanity quickly wipes away, and I go stiff with fear. "Essil…?!" I ask, forgetting when I had last seen her.

"Is all right," Shii answers before I can freak out fully. She smooths a gentle palm over the wrappings, mindful of her claws. "No harm was done to her, as you saw. He… My lord was too busy tending to you. And…and I admit I was fearful too; my lord has stabbed a Bokoblin clean through over a broken vase. I expected worse for the mirror, but…" Shii's reflection shows the deep furrows in her brow, casts her confusion for me to see. "He was completely dismissive of it. He was more irritated Essil hadn't handed him the supplies yet. 'Never mind that!' he said. 'Give me the damn gauze! Hurry, hurry, you wretched fool, before she bleeds out!'"

I blink rapidly at Shii's hushed descriptions, trying to process them. He had cursed? I almost don't believe it, but then the echo of a memory proves it to be true. I heard him say it.

Shii huffs irritably, nodding in acquiesce. "I don't understand it either, human. …But that does not make me any less grateful."

"Sorry," I mumble.

"For what?"

"Because, uh… If…if I hadn't gotten hurt, it wouldn't have happened. It's my fault the mirror was broken."

Shii scoffs deep in her throat. "Yet it is because of you Essil was spared."

"But I shouldn't have been injured in the first place. I shouldn't have jumped in front of that blade—it wouldn't have hurt him like it hurt me. But I just—" I grimace as I try to shrug, and Shii puts a hand on my shoulder to still it, glaring at me for the movement. "—I don't know. I just reacted."

"And he knows it."

I shoot her a questioning look through the reflections.

Shii's yellow eyes dart from me to the work of the bandages. Her voice is distant as she says, "None have ever taken a blow for my lord. From him. Never for him."

"Because he's a sword; he can't be hurt. They don't need to."

"Yes, true. But that is not anyone else's reasoning. He is the strongest; it is why they follow him. If he can be felled, they would move onto someone stronger. They wait, they see. My lord has never been defeated and they obey because he is strongest. It is the reasoning of both Bokoblin and Lizalfos and many others.

"But you," she continued, "You, you stupid human, did not think of such things. You did not think at all; you reacted. My lord, or any of us for that matter, has never known such…" Shii pauses, grasping for a word. "…Loyalty."

I gawk at her reflection. "Loyal—! No I just didn't want him to die, I mean—! I'm not his underling!"

"Of course not. An underling would not be recuperating in his bed."

I let out an indignant squawk. "But—"

"The point is: it happened, human. You happened." A ghost of a smirk pulls at her snout. "And now we know if Essil ever breaks a vase, all she need do is hide behind you."

A hard smile jerks at the corner of my mouth. "Then he'll stab me, and we'll be in this mess all over again."

Shii turns solemn, quietly says, "Not so. My lord is…" She huffs. "For all your knowledge you do not know the things I know. You cannot fathom how he is now…because you do not know how he was."

"I didn't change anything," I protest, suddenly uneasy.

Shii's somber yellow eyes gleam in the mirror as she pats my finished wrappings. "Whatever it is that helps you sleep at night, human. Tell it to yourself."

* * *

 **A/N: 7, 445 words not including Author's Notes.** ** **Conscientious of your feedback, I attempted to make this chapter a little more concise. Thank you all again!****


	19. where loyalties lie

**A/N: Thank you** **Moon ninja Luna,** **autumn-lee-chan,** **Voidlash, Mokki Takashi, Meta-Akira, YingWhiteyWolf, Guest, Zorauza, Ambiguous Cake, Guest, Anthiese, Alter Ego Bob, Pineapple, Wingdings13, SarukoDark, Luna Latanya, and Guest for all your reviews.**

 **I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to everyone. Please know your support means a lot to me.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 19**

 _You're not a prisoner, you're a pet. A pet! A know-nothing pet!_

I toss.

 _You do not know how he was. You cannot fathom how he is now._

I turn.

 _You cannot fathom…_

"I didn't change anything," I mumble, curling in my sleep.

Shii's words won't leave me alone. My sleep is fitful, my stitched-together shoulder not the only thing plaguing me with discomfort. The red silk of these sheets should feel good, but all they do is remind me of whose bed I'm sleeping in. His room. His bed. Why am I in it?

 _An underling would not be recuperating in his bed…_

I can't stay in it.

I struggle to sit up, pain racing down by back as fire does on oil tracks, and I flounder in tangled silk like a shaky newborn foal. But I don't stop fighting. Panic sets in. I shouldn't be in his bed. I shouldn't be getting such nice treatment. Things are happening that shouldn't be, and I don't know how to take them.

I roll out onto the floor and crawl from the entrapping sheet. The fluid silk drags out onto the stone, a monster with a red hand reaching for me. I want away from it.

The wound curled on my back screeches in pain. On hands and knees I shuffle to the foot of the bed, and then I can make it no further; it feels like my shoulder is splitting all over again. Regret over refusing the last offering of numbing potion fills me. There's no getting any now. Not this late. It is almost completely dark, save for the fire glowing in the stone holders along the walls, each flame no bigger than a stuttering candle. Shii and Essil have probably long gone to sleep. A part of me wants to cry out for them, as a sick child would in the depths of night. Shame keeps my mouth shut. I'm the one who turned the potion away. I thought it was making me see and hear and feel things that weren't there.

I thought. I was mistaken.

There are times when flashes of light hit me when I close my eyes. Voices are heard as if someone is speaking right next to me. When I look no one is there. If the potion was causing it, surely it would have stopped by now.

Leaning up against the end of the bed, I am careful to keep my weight on my right. My sutures twinge and ping regardless. A grimace screws up my face and my breaths come shaky and shallow. I can feel sweat starting to gather in the most uncomfortable of places; under my arms and breasts, along my forehead and down my back. It cools on contact with the air, and I shiver. The stone tiles beneath me also seem to suck away warmth.

The dark creeps in from the corners of the room, hushing the candles' glow.

For a while it is quiet.

I wish it was just Shii's voice keeping me from sleep. I wish it were just remembered words and uneasy implications. But that's not all there is. There are other voices.

They're whispering now.

I throw my head left and right, greeted by nothing but dimly swaying shadows. Shivers morph into violent trembling, subsiding as quickly as they emerge. And then I am still, still and waiting for another bizarre occurrence. I don't know what's happening to me. Am I getting sick? Is it the pain?

… _has not abandoned you._

I jolt upright, nearly crying out from the pain in my shoulder. I know that voice! Zelda's voice. That was Zelda's voice.

Tense and motionless, I listen. More whispers fall in the silence, all bundled and buzzing together. I can't make out anything they say. They are like the drone of voices found on the city streets, in a world far from this one.

I rest my head back on the foot of the bed, squeeze my eyes as tight as I can. Flashes of white. Noises in my head. Maybe I'm just remembering things too vividly. Yeah, that has to be it. That's all it is. I'm tired. I'm hurting. It's stress. That's all it—

A woman appears on the back of my eyelids, clear and profound.

My eyes snap open, stretched wide. What—who was that? My trembling comes back full force. My fingers slowly curl, nails scraping along the stone floor. Uneasiness bleeds over into anger. I grit my teeth and close my eyes. Fine. Fine! Whatever's happening, let it happen.

As if responding, the flares of light return, popping like florescent bulbs. One reveals Zelda, smiling in her Skyloftian dress. Another flash shows her again, in that white flowing dress, mouth pulled by a weary frown. Another stab of blinding light, and I see the woman again. She has the same blue eyes and golden hair, wears the same white dress, the same shimmering bracelets and hair clasps. But she is different from Zelda. She seems tall as the sky. And there is something about her that just…isn't human. There is an ethereal glow about her, like the sun, and it sets her form in a golden blaze.

She is Hylia.

She stands in the blare of light, her mouth moving. I scrunch my brow, unable to hear anything. I hone in on her lips, but still, I can't make out a word.

No, wait…

" _She…_ " is what her mouth says.

She? She, what?

I push my concentration, and my head begins to ache for it. She seems to say more, but I cannot tell what.

And then just like that she's gone, leaving spots of color burning behind my eyes.

More voices pour in the void, some familiar, some not. For a moment I think I hear my father and my mother and my brother among them, distantly, like they are very far away. And getting further, and further…

Pressure builds in my closed eyes. Comeback, I want to say. _Come back_.

But I know they were never here. I hunch over, pressing my face into my knees, willing the pressure and the voices to go away. Go away, and just leave those that I know.

Hah, but they don't, of course. If anything, they seem to get louder. Louder, and louder, and—

A hand grips my uninjured shoulder. "Kya."

I inhale sharply and jerk upright, my eyes darting first to the pale hand grasping me, and then up to the tightly drawn face of Ghirahim. He is kneeled beside me.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Narrowing his dark eyes, he leans to look deeper into my face. "What is it? Your aura was fluctuating quite rapidly."

I say nothing, only stare in petrified silence.

His grip tightens a fraction. "Were you having a vision?"

My mouth opens and closes without the grace and purpose of Hylia's. Words spill out before my mind can catch them. "Just a bunch of dis-discombobulated shi—stuff."

He tilts his head oddly, hair falling over his left eye. "Of what?"

"Hylia." I squeeze my eyes shut and quickly try to reevaluate what I can and cannot share. "Just…Hylia."

"Did you see if there's any possible way we could get to the spirit maiden? Or…anything concerning my master?" Ghirahim speaks on baited breath, the hint of hope in his tone unmistakable.

I shake my head slowly so as to not upset my wound. "No."

There is a beat of silence, one which gives the impression he is waiting for me to change my answer. It is a silence which threatens to choke me, pushing in, pulling the air from my lungs.

It passes and Ghirahim leans back, his disappointed sigh brushing my cheek. "…Get back into bed, little bird."

I hunch closer to my knees, consciously tugging at my night gown so I am covered. "I can't."

His eyes sharpen. "And why ever not?"

Remembering Shii's words, I avert my eyes. "…Because it's yours," I say so quietly it barely constitutes a whisper.

"So? I'm not using it, am I?" He stands in one fluid movement. "Get off the floor and back into bed."

I shake my head.

I feel his black eyes boring into me. "That wasn't a request. Back into bed. Now."

My fingers clench at the floor, hooking as if they were talons. "No, it hurts. Just—just leave me alone."

He bears down on me with a withering look of disapproval. "Perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much if you had stayed in bed. Well? You can't stay on the floor."

"Yes I can."

"Kya!" His face contorts with impatience. He lunges, yanking me by the arms. "Get into—"

My choking gasp cuts him short.

His hands jump off me like I've burned him, and then hover just above my skin, as if debating whether I'm safe to touch.

Neither of us moves for what seems like the longest time. We are both statues caught in a stilled frame, neither blinking, neither seeming to even breathe.

"…Must you be so foolish," he whispers, and the spell is broken. He curves an arm beneath my thighs. His other arm rises under my right shoulder and steadies me. Despite the awkward hold, he lifts me like I am no more than air in his arms. He is cool against me, and I feel the subtle movement of muscle beneath smooth flesh as he carries me over to the bed. He lays me down where he is intent on having me, and then brings the sheet up, pulls it up over my shoulder, all with a gentleness I am not used to, one that is far too sincere.

He steps back, glaring. "And you'll stay there until… Stop chewing on your lip. Here, just…" He swipes his thumb over my lower lip. It comes away with a smudge of blood on it.

I stiffen. "S-Sorry."

He stares at the stain, left on what I'm assuming to be a new glove. His face has gone oddly blank.

I wait in trepidation.

A shadow of rage comes over his face and for a moment I think he's going to scream at me, but then he snaps his fingers and is gone in an array of gold and red and magic chime.

I stare uncomprehendingly at where he stood.

Weariness robs me of my will to understand. I sink down into the luxurious pillows, still at odds on my position. But I stay, at least for now. The ache throbbing down my back doesn't stop, but the voices have. Ghirahim's presence must have chased them away; the blackest shadow to curtain the bombardment of popping lights.

I close my eyes and try my best to sleep. For a while I do, I think. For a while.

And then the drone of voices, like those on the sidewalk of a busy city street, kick back up. Among the skyscrapers and bustling people, there is one voice that does not belong. It belongs to a goddess in a girl's body. And she keeps whispering the same thing, over and over.

… _you're still…connected…_

My head swims and I don't understand it, so I close my eyes and try to ignore it.

But in the dark of my dreams I hear, and I see, all the sights and sounds of the Knowing Realm.

* * *

Eventually the noises stopped, and somewhere along the line of blurred consciousness nipped at by continuous ache, exhaustion finally managed to wash me away in its tide.

Which is why, of course, tonight of all nights, I am startled awake by a booming crack of thunder.

The dark world is always stormy, it seems. Sunlight is rarer than even the most precious of jewels. The weather mostly varies from dreary stillness to windblown rain. Grumbling thunder is no stranger either.

Tonight, however, the storm is worse than ever. It growls, and rumbles, hisses, and roars. It tears and claws outside of the castle, trying to get in. Rain pelts bullets, thunder shakes the walls, and lightning flashes its fangs through the windows.

I pull the sheet over my head, annoyance leaping into fear's place. Why couldn't it let me sleep?

My right arm tingles from having laid on it too long. I shift in the bed. Watery silk glides over my legs in a gentle caress.

It feels strange.

Right now I'd normally be huddled on wet stone, bracing against the wall as wind and rain howl through a glassless window.

How long had I been in the tower? How long had I slept on stone? How long had I shivered and huddled against the gusts blowing in from that glassless window? And now suddenly here I am, in a plush bed surrounded by finery, in a silky night gown, the storm thumping outside on barriers it can't hope to break, with warm food and clear water and medicine being brought to me in frequent intervals.

The first instance Essil delivered such a collection, I could hardly believe it. She set a silver tray over my lap and lifted the shining lid, revealing a steaming bowl of pheasant soup. A smaller bowl was set next to it, filled with freshly cut assorted fruits. Warm slices of bread were set to the other side, along with a glass of water and a vial of numbing potion, the likes of which was colored a sickly marsh green. Ignoring the foul medicine, I took in the elaborate display, of silver tray and utensils, of crystalline glass and decorated china.

I looked up at Essil with confused awe. "Why?"

A secret smile pulled along her snout, adding a serene sparkle to her normally nervous eyes. "Because my lord commands it," was all she said. And then she busied herself with fluffing pillows that really didn't need to be fluffed, made sure I was comfortable and sitting up straight, and then left me to my meal.

It was too surreal.

Even now, lying here in lightning pierced darkness, I can't get over it—can't get over _any_ of this. He couldn't have commanded that. Why? It's not like him, him who forgot about my existence entirely the first few days he had me. Why care now? Why _act_ like he cares? Because I pushed him out of the way of a sword he would have dodged anyhow?

That's right, I muse. I remember. Without the daze of blood loss or strange potions or even stranger voices, I can see it. I can see the scene as clearly as I saw it the first time on that silver screen. When Link came down with the Goddess Sword, Ghirahim would have leapt clear of it.

But he didn't.

Because I was there.

Because, in a moment of sheer panic, I reacted. I did not think.

I did it without thinking. Why? Loyalty, Shii said. I curl tighter under the sheets. Peering out through a crack between the bed and the sheet, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the many gold framed mirrors. My body, huddled on the very edge, is dwarfed by the huge bed; a tiny sparrow in a snake's den. Taken care of. Allowed to live. A pet. I glare at the reflection. It wasn't loyalty. I just didn't want him to die. Is that what constitutes as loyalty in the demon realm? Simple integrity?

And yet…

He has never known such loyalty, Shii said. They follow and obey him because he is strongest. If another came along who was stronger, they would follow that one. I grimace. What kind of devotion is that? Granted, he treats them lower than dirt, but… Is that how all demons are?

An image of Demise, of hellfire hair and black scales, flits through my mind.

Is that how…Ghirahim's loyalty works? If he could be convinced Demise was not the strongest, would he…?

I slap the notion down before it can fully form. Of course not. I've read his lines; I know how he speaks of his master. I've seen how he will bow when his master stands unsealed and free. He'll smile and welcome the demon king back like he's greeting a revered friend. There's nothing fickle in how Ghirahim regards Demise. His tenacity in securing his master's freedom is matched only by Link's drive to save Zelda from falling to a sacrificial fate.

Ghirahim could be convinced to abandon his master no more than Link could be persuaded to abandon Zelda.

A bitter sting of disappointment shudders through my heart. My feral smile cracks in the dark. Ha. Ha ha. As if I actually had hope. How stupid. Love your enemy, but don't trust him, and definitely don't go thinking you can save him. Why would I even want to?

But then, when I think of how it all ends, when I think of a sword, shining and black and imposing in all its ferocity, shattering into a thousand tiny shards, that bitter disappointment resurfaces. It swells my heart and leaves behind a burn that won't abate. Angrily I rub at my chest, willing the confounded feeling away. How stupid. How stupid, stupid, stupid! As if there could be another outcome! Whatever. As long as Link wins and humanity is safe, I don't—

 _I don't want him to die._

—care. I squeeze my eyes shut, cursing my admission for turning around and biting me in the butt. A dangerous admission, growls the she-wolf. Dangerous, echoes the ewe. Oh good. At least they both agree on that.

A squealing peel of thunder shakes the night once more, lightning searing to the backs of my eyes.

" _Sonofabitch!_ " My scream is swallowed by the after-rumbles of the storm. I sit up, stiff as a board, huffing rapidly through my nose.

I sit listening to the clamor outside the windows, feeling my heart count the seconds between every blinding blast.

With sleep out of reach, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and clench my teeth against the pain streaking down my back. I walk on despite it, remove myself from expensive silks and elegant furnishings. I'm not accustomed to such things. I didn't have them even in my Knowing Realm days. I had a job and paid my own way. Not in housing—I didn't want to be by myself—but in things. On minimum wage, I could afford plush synthetics and cheap imitations. Real velvet, satin, and silk were out of bounds. But I didn't care. I bought my own food, my own clothes, my own bedding and necessities.

Even still, my mother would throw down pamphlets to different colleges in front of me.

"Your brother's getting his future together," she'd say briskly, before her heels clicked to the door, keys jangling in her hand, her tailored dress suit crisp and clean. "It's past time you got your act together too. Pick one." And then she was out the door. Gone. As always.

I never did pick one. I barely skimmed those pamphlets, all telling of schools that led down paths to all the dreams I didn't want. I didn't want to be a doctor. I didn't want to be a lawyer. I didn't want to get involved with corporate. Or anything else. What I wanted was so much simpler. Simple, but never attained.

 _You're never home. The halls are empty. The rooms are empty._

The thunderstorm growls in discontent. I stop in the space between the bed and the door. Lightning reduces the shadows of the bed's thick hanging drapes to pinstripes. Rain roars against the stained glass windows, wishing it could go in with the light.

I grind my teeth. How annoying. Thunderstorms used to comfort me in the Knowing Realm. I'd sleep through those storms like a baby; they were like lullabies back then. But years on Skyloft, where anything but perfect weather is rare, has sensitized me beyond discomfort.

Another clap of thunder spurs me the rest of the way to the door. I hurry out into the short hall and turn into the main room, where the glow of hearth fire pushes back the battle between lightning and shadow.

I come to an abrupt halt.

There is the demon, silhouetted against the maw of bright flames. How could I forget? He's sitting on the sofa with another—or maybe the same—book in his lap. Just like before. Unlike before, he's not idly combing through words with one hand on the page. This time Ghirahim sits with his spine curved, his face in his hands, fingers curled and ridged, digging into his skin, sliding up into his hair.

Dark utterances find their way to me. It doesn't sound like any language I know.

I go to take a step back, feeling I've intruded on a sensitive moment. Reconsidering, I take a hesitant step forward instead, unblinking, or else I'll think I've imagined this.

Another step closer. Another. I catch wisps of that dark, heavy tongue. Another step and—

My foot hits a book, knocks it down the few stairs lending into the slight indentation where the couches are. It lands with a smack.

Ghirahim vaults upright, hair disarrayed from his fingers, wild eyes locking onto mine, petrifying me in their dark stare. He keeps me trapped, keeps us both trapped.

My heart pounds on my ribcage, counting the beats.

He leans back into the sofa, smoothing his hair and a crinkled page. He doesn't take his eyes off me.

"…What are you doing out of bed, little bird?" He enunciates carefully, but it is not enough to hide the strangled edge in his voice.

I don't move, and I don't answer. I'm still caught in his gaze.

A dangerous gleam enters his eyes. "I asked you a question; I expect to be answered." The hushed way he speaks is like the drawn out hiss of a snake, more penetrating than any scream.

If he is the snake, then what am I? I cannot break free.

He rises, the book falling from his lap. A swift kick of his heel sends it flying backwards into the fire. It bursts off the stone inlay, pages coming unbound, spilling out, only to be curled and blackened by ravenous flames. It pops and hisses and flares purplish. Ghirahim doesn't look back at it, refuses to break contact with me. He stalks towards me, pinning me with his glare.

 _Now would be a good time to move. Legs?_ A quiver runs their length, but no more than that.

Ghirahim puts his foot on the first step. "For days I've searched, book after book, page after page, hour after hour—"

The second step. His height gains.

"—looking for something, anything, that will help me revive my master."

The third step and he already towers above me.

"And now, here, my prophetess, my one and only tangible lead, is flouncing around"—He reaches final ground, bending over to look me right in the eye, his voice dropping into a rasping hiss—"trying to tear open the wound that nearly killed her."

I take short breaths. My eyes are wide, but not even the she-wolf can bring forth her fanged smile. _Prophetess_ , my mind echoes Yes. That's right. Of course. That's why he's taking such pains. That's why I'm being treated so well. A dead prophet can't talk. That's the only reason—

He takes my face in his hands. "I'll ask you once more, my little darling. My sweet little darling. What. Are you doing. Out of bed?"

My lips part, but no sound comes out. His black eyes swallow mine.

A shriek of thunder rockets through the night.

My own shriek shoots off to join it. " _Jesus Lawd, save me!_ "

Ghirahim's hands fly off my face, float on either side of my head. "What are you—? What did you say?"

"N-Nothing." Out of the trance, I stagger three steps back. No way am I explaining that English phrase to him. As a demon he should know it, know Who to fear.

…But he doesn't bat an eye beyond his initial start, and I'm left wondering what kind of demon he is.

Ghirahim covers my strides with a single of his, reclaiming the space directly in front of me. "You'll tell me what you said. Now."

"It—it was just…! _Ack!_ " I jump at another thunderous boom.

His incredulous expression shifts into one of dawning comprehension. "Are you afraid of thunder?"

"No!" I snap. "No, I'm just—! It's loud, okay? It's loud and it startles me, that doesn't mean I'm scared."

His brows lower over an unimpressed glare. "Must I coddle you like a little baby?"

"What? No! I'm just startled," I continue. "You know, like most random loud noises tend to do to people? Tch. That doesn't equate to _fear_."

He sighs resignedly. "Mm-hm. Certainly. Come this way, my darling."

And just like that he's back down the steps and on the lounge with another book.

I blink once. I blink twice. Where did his rage just go?

He opens the new book, flips through a bunch of pages, and then looks up at me. "What are you doing still over there?" He holds out a hand. "Come here."

After what just happened, I don't dare refuse. I skitter down the steps and cross to him, hesitating only when I see he actually expects met to take his hand. When I do, he eases me down beside him.

"Turn around." He makes a spinning motion with his finger. "I want to see it."

I give him my back, feel as he brushes my hair aside and slips my gown's strap from my shoulder. He peels back the wrappings and his fingertips glide down the train track sutures.

While he scrutinizes my wound, I glance around the room. A tea table of glass and rosewood has appeared in the space between the couches, its transparent surface covered with books. There are even more books scattered about than the last time I was in here. Stacks of them lean against the walls, the couches, towers of them rise from the floor, and there's an unraveled scroll spanning like a carpet down the steps. I squint at the squiggles written across its length.

Ghirahim makes a dissatisfied noise in his throat. "I'm far more attuned to slicing flesh apart, not mending it together."

My eyebrows perk up. Funny, that almost sounded like he was admitting to imperfection.

His breath tickles my skin. "Now I've read somewhere that humans are prone to infection…"

"If it was infected, it'd be super red and pussy and I'd have a fever."

He pinches the back of my neck. "I'm not some ignorant bumpkin, Kya. I know what infection looks like. Which is why I know we can't be too careful, hmm? You'll be a good girl and rest from now on." There is a sharp edge in his tone, rebuffing negotiation.

I stare off at the far wall, too tired to argue. I let him touch, and I let him fuss, all the while reminding myself he's only doing it because I'm the book he can't replace. I'm the bird parroting knowledge guised as prophecies learned from a life ago.

Nothing more.

And as the demon's hands slowly run down my arms, as he presses his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder, lips resting there in an approximation of a kiss, those words echo in my head.

Nothing more. It's a trick. Nothing more. It's just a trick.

I force my breathing to remain even. "Master…?"

He hums, pulls away, runs his palms back up my arms. "Lie down."

I don't think I heard right. "What?"

A yellow glow suddenly encases me. I gasp and sputter as the strange force lifts me up and twirls me until I am lying on my right side, my head resting on something firm and smooth. Realization is quick to strike. Telekinesis. His thigh. Shock and the spell keep me from springing off. Ghirahim twists his wrist slightly to the right, and the glow surrounding my body mimics the movement, situating me just as he wants, before it fades.

And then I lay there, eyes wide, mouth pressed in a thin line. My head is on his thigh, my nose facing his hip. And it's too close, it's far too close.

His fingers thread into my hair before I can move. He keeps them there, like he knows, if given the chance, I'd escape. I glance up into his face. He gives me a smug little smile, and then casually turns his attention back to his book, which he moved up to the arm of the couch.

My brain labors away, trying to make sense of the situation. I stare at his hip, at the golden sash and red jewel. My nose is a little too close, I think I'll just wiggle down, and maybe off, his thigh.

His fingers start kneading. A warning.

I can't take it. "Okay, Master, this is weird. Can I just—"

"Hush," he says softly. "You're the one who wouldn't stay in bed. Now lie still and go to sleep."

I don't think he realizes the impossibility of that command. Between the wailing wind, cracking thunder, and…him…there's no way the tension will leave my body, or my mind. But I lie there anyway. Because I have to, apparently.

Thunder and lightning crash into the room, ramming the darkness through the walls. It retreats, and darkness reclaims ground.

I jolt in Ghirahim's grasp.

Black eyes flicker to me, then back to the book. "Storms of this magnitude happen every once in a while. There's no reason to be alarmed."

"I'm not…" But then I don't bother.

The hearth crackles and snaps; a log falls lower into the flames. I lose count of the seconds that pass by. The occasional flip of paper chimes in with fire and thunder. His fingers drift softly through my hair, getting caught in knots so many times that he gives up and transfers the attention to the downy hair at the nape of my neck, lightly scratching, twirling the thin strands around his fingers.

Annoyance sparks in me. What am I? A cat?

But after a while that annoyance retreats, and I begin to realize how tired I really am. The storm clouds move away; I can hear their growls recede, and it isn't long after that that my eyelids start to droop. I shouldn't…I shouldn't be relaxing, I… This is too weird. Why is he doing this? This—this goes beyond what is necessary. He's messing with me, he has to be.

I glance at him through hazy eyes, but that little smirk from earlier is gone. In its place is a faraway look. His eyes are on the pages, but he's not reading. There's that same gleam in his eye, the one I thought I saw before. It is despondence, a look of downcast hope. I've seen that look before. On me. When I'm thinking of everything that I've lost. And to see it on him is just…too strange.

But that's to be expected, I guess. The Gate of Time had been destroyed, and he doesn't know about the second one yet. He thinks the spirit maiden—and the only sure way to bring back his master—is beyond his reach.

Now here he is, pouring over dusty books and heavy tomes, searching for a solution he's never going to find.

And yet…he still looks.

I open my eyes a little wider, but am careful not to move, am careful not to draw him out of his reverie. He's never known such loyalty? Yes he has. How else would he recognize it? Has he not given it to his master every day of his life?

He's given it.

He's just never received it.

He comes from his daze, catches me staring. "…Why are your eyes still open, little bird?"

"How long have yours been open?" I ask hesitantly, wondering.

He doesn't say anything at first. He just looks at me, that crestfallen air still about him. And then, "It doesn't matter. I don't need sleep like you do." His expression sharpens, as does his tone. "Close your eyes." And then, softer, "Dream a vision. Find me a way."

A part of me twists in agony—the part of me that dared to hope even a little. He'll never stop serving his master. There will never be another solution. Just death, of one side or the other. And it can't be Link. It can't be humanity that perishes.

So I close my eyes and pretend.

But later, as he still strokes my hair, as he reads with firelight sparkling in his blue diamond earring, I peer up at him, and I hear an echo from deep inside me.

 _I don't want…him to die._

* * *

 **A/N: It felt like every time I sat down to work on this, someone was knocking at my door needing me to do something. "Sorry I'm late," should be my catchphrase.  
**


	20. rest for the weary

**A/N: I've been stuck in a rut.  
**

 **Thank you** **autumn-lee-chan,** **Meta-Akira,** **Moon ninja Luna,** **PokemonTrainer4700,** **Mokki Takashi,** **Luna Latanya,** **SarukoDark,** **Bluebadger** (I'm happy to hear that! ^_^ Maybe he is~! No one really knows with the demon lord.) **,** **Ambiguous Cake,** **Guest** (I'm sorry~! T_T There's no concrete schedule, but I'll try to update more often. I can't make any promises. Keep checking back every now and then, though. Sometimes I surprise.) **,** **AttackOnDatBooty** (Thank you! I will.) **,** **Voidlash** (Hoo, you can say that again. Life, indeed.) **,** **MoonlightDovakiin** (I'm very glad you like it! ^_^ I'll continue to do my best.) **, and** **ForEVER n EVERs** (Rest assured I have not given up and am not going to give up. Things just get in the way. Thank you for the encouragement!) **for your reviews on the last chapter.  
**

 **I'm going to keep truckin'. Just keep swimmin', just keep swimmin'...**

* * *

 **Chapter 20**

I wake the next morning to stone grinding and wood creaking, to quaking walls and reverberating floors.

I leap off the couch and dive under the nearest table, punching my head and back into the underside in the process. My thoughts fire rapidly. Earthquake?! What do I do, _what do I do?!_

But it stops as suddenly as it started, subsiding first to little tremors and then to nothing at all. I crawl out from the table and stand uncertainly on my feet, having little trust for what I thought to be crumbling mere seconds ago.

"Uh…" I hold my arms up by my sides, like a chicken doubtfully stretching out its wings, wondering if it could miraculously fly if it came down to it.

And then it happens again.

Each individual stone tile seems to shiver beneath the pads of my bare feet, not as strongly as what woke me, but moving all the same.

"Okay, seriously?!" I squeak, head whipping to look around. "Shii? Essil? Master?!" And then, uncertainly: "…Bob?"

There are no replies but the dust hissing from the vaulted ceiling, pilfering downward like some ominous dark glitter. The tremoring, meanwhile, subsides unevenly. It lessens and lessens until it is coming from only one side of the great room. Sounds of scuffling and scraping, like heavy furniture being moved, come from behind one door…that I'm sure wasn't there before.

I start towards it, curiosity prevailing over caution. Knowing just what Nikki would say, I can practically hear her now: " _Oh, yes, do the whitest thing you can do. Go investigate that scary sound._ _Honestly, have you ever watched a horror movie?_ "

And then I'd point out that she was creeping behind me, also intent on investigating, to which she would demand I shut up and pay attention to what's ahead of me.

The door comes into focus. With a trembling hand I reach out towards it.

Only to have the thing shoot open. It slams me in the face and knocks me down.

Ghirahim stands in the doorway, hand on the knob. "Darling, come here and… What are you doing on the floor?"

"Polishing the stone with my _butt_!" I snap sarcastically, face contorted in pain.

Ghirahim pricks me with an unamused glare. "Pick yourself up and come in here." He pauses, glancing down. "…And close your legs."

I clap my knees together and furiously tug at the gown, the heat of embarrassment adding to the ache in my face. But Ghirahim has already turned away in a regal swirl of his red cape and moved into the room. After staggering to my feet, I follow after him.

As soon as I get through the threshold, I freeze. "What…is this?"

Before me lies a room of gentle splendor. Two bell-shaped stained glass windows, glowing with the hazy light of another cloudy day, immediately catch my attention. They sit side by side, a small gap of stone between them, both spanning ten feet long and wide. The blue, green, and yellow shapes of the glass seem to create an abstract picture of flower petals scattering off their stems in the wind of a clear blue day. To the left of the windows lies a large square bed, its sheets a warm cream color and its thick coverlet subtly embroidered with glossy thread. A canopy of layered navy velvet trimmed with gold hangs above, supported by towering bedposts carved with rhombus indents. A crimson rug stretches at the bed's end from the door to the windows, lending the cold stone tiled floor a semblance of warmth.

Ghirahim, standing in the center of said room, the colored glass of the windows shining behind him, tilts his head and lifts his arms as if gesturing to the entire area. "I would think it obvious. It's your new room, since you are so adamant about not staying in mine."

My mouth works, but no words come out. "I, uh…" For a moment I think to ask why. Why would you do this? Why am I not back in the tower? But the ewe and the wolf kick and claw those questions away, and together they glare, telling me not to shove this…thing we have going on… off the edge it's teetering dangerously on. But what that 'thing' is, I'm not sure, and only more questions arise.

Ghirahim looks at me curiously, his head still tilted, his arms slowly lowering. "You'll find spare clothes in the armoire"—He flicks a hand in its direction—"and other necessities lying about."

When he doesn't continue, I get an overwhelming feeling that that's my que to speak. _Say something, say something—quick!_ the ewe screams from under the sudden lump in my throat. "Th-Thank you," I finally manage to croak out.

The barest hint of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "It's not as glorious as it could be, but with the spells and time allotted…I suppose it will do." He scans my flustered self, complete with disheveled hair and crumpled gown, up and down with a judgmental eye. "For you."

His slight jab does not fully register. But, in fact, I'm not even sure if it was a jab. "Yes. Thank you," I echo tentatively. "You…didn't have to."

He scoffs, flicks his eyes to the mildly sloped ceiling. "Oh, I know that, you little idiot."

My shoulders relax at the insult. Now that's more like him.

"But I wanted to. And we can't exactly have you sleeping on the couch every night now, can we?"

And just like that my tension returns. And stays. For the first time since I woke up, I notice my shoulder throbbing, creeping vines of hurt traveling from the slash wound and outward through my back. I hunch awkwardly.

Ghirahim is in front of me before I know it, traversing the space between us in the blink of an eye. "Let me see it," he demands quietly, and I must oblige, because he's already at my back and tugging at the bandages. "Relax. Put your shoulders down."

I do my best to do so, but it's hard. Not just because of the pain, but because I'm not used to him acting like this, and I can't keep from thinking that it's all some elaborate prank. The curtain's gonna rise any second, they're all going to point and laugh at me. I'm going to be thrown back in the tower.

He peels the gauze away, for a while says nothing. Then he hisses, "What did you do?"

"What?" I jerk my head to look over my shoulder.

He grabs the back of my head. "Don't move—What did you do?!"

"I—I, um…" I scramble for anything that he could be talking about. "Uh, the table. I dove under the table near the couch."

"Why would you do something so stupid?" I feel him blotting the sutures with the gauze.

"Um, because the castle was shaking?" I stop myself from taking on an irritable tone.

"That was merely the spells I used to—"

"Yeah, well, I know that _now_ , thank— _eep_!" I break off in a squeak as his fingers pinch into the back of my neck.

"Don't interrupt me," he growls lowly.

I keep quiet while he continues to sponge at my wound. The wetness can be felt overtop the hot pain now, and I know I am bleeding, but cannot say how badly. And I don't ask him, either, for fear of riling him further.

The silence lags and I grow restless. My legs begin prickling, muscles pulling in demand for movement as they usually do when I must stand still. I ignore their plea. But despite my intent to keep from annoying him, I accomplish it. Rather, my hair accomplishes it. He flicks the wayward strands from the wound and the wispy tendrils float right back to where they were shooed from.

I can practically hear his teeth grind together. "Have you ever taken a brush to this rat's nest? Or are you content to live like a sloven savage?"

"…I can't seem to remember having a comb in the tower, Master." My words are soft and contemplating, as I truly did stop to think about the tower and all that was afforded to me in its cold, damp space.

The sponging of my wound stops abruptly. It restarts slowly. He dabs the weeping sutures a few more times and then carefully presses the bandages back into place. He says nothing, and he seems lost in thought when he wanders over to a vanity desk made of the same richly colored rosewood as the rest of the furniture. He fingers the objects lying on the polished surface, among them being a silver backed comb and brush.

"You'll find these for your using," he says softly, and there's something in his voice that strikes me. He won't look at me but if I didn't know any better I'd say he sounds almost…apologetic.

But I do know better. So it can't be.

"Okay," I respond plainly, still not sure how to take all this. "Thank you," I tag on for caution's sake.

His gaze finds its way back to my shoulder and just like that the fleeting softness is gone, replaced by a sharp glare. "And I _expect_ you to use them. I won't have you looking like a lost mutt any longer."

I give him a flat look. "Yes, Master." Another door over his shoulder catches my eye. "What's that?"

He follows my stare. "For emergencies," he replies curtly. "You control the lock."

I don't understand. I open my mouth to question further but he speaks before I can.

"Did you not hear what I said before that? Brush your hair!" He huffs and a snowy strand of hair falls out of place. He puts a hand to his head. "Oh, never mind, lie down! Well? Don't just stand there—DO IT!"

His outburst has me scrambling to do so. My bumbling feet nearly send me to the floor but I am saved by my outstretched arms catching the cushy bed. At his hissed " _careful!_ " I gingerly ease onto my right uninjured side.

He fixes his hair, and for a moment I could have sworn the fingers slipping that errant strand back into place were shaking. "I must resume my search for a solution to our…dilemma…with the Gate of Time. I'll…send Shii in to change your dressings. Don't do anything strenuous"—his voice turns nasty—"and that means no diving under tables!"

I nod mutely.

He rests his hand on the doorknob. "Good. Goodnight." His eyes flicker to the sunlight in the windows. "Day."

The door opens and slams behind him.

I lie there in the quiet.

What. The heck. Was that?

What was that? He was shaking. He was stumbling over his words. That thing I said about the tower couldn't have affected him that much, could it? _Why_ would it affect him at all? No, it must have been something else. I turn over the possibilities in my head.

I raise my head from the pillow. "When was the last time you… Oh. You left. Right." I settle back down. Apparently he's not the only one out of sorts, I think dryly.

 _When was the last time you slept?_ I wanted to ask. The question pesters me continuously, nagging to be spoken. It nearly drives me up to do so.

And then I hear him yelling through the walls. The _solid stone_ walls. They muffle enough so there is no coherency, but the harshness of his tone is conveyed all the same.

Shii comes in not a second later and I know by the panic flittering behind her yellow eyes that it was her Ghirahim had raised his voice to. "I apologize," she says stiffly, standing as tall as a solider with her back to the door. "More red potion will be made, but for now I have this…" She holds up a small jar, pale green paste dotted with a darker substance showing through the clear glass. "Essil made it."

I learn the mixture was created from various healing herbs. The little dots turn out to be leaves and the smell of it is both pungent and sweet. It tingles when Shii smears it onto my shoulder wound and continues to do so after she has carefully wrapped fresh bandages. It dulls the pain.

I'm led back to bed but I don't sleep. I'm awake when Essil comes knocking with food. Awkwardly I let her take care of me again, let her set the tray over my lap and fluff the pillows. But inside I'm writhing. I'm not used to this.

"You don't have to fuss over me," I say.

Essil blinks at me curiously. "But if I want to fuss?"

I draw back and twist my lips in disbelief.

She smiles. "You are a strange human."

"And you're a weird…" I almost say _lizard_ but then think better of it. "…Lizalfos."

Her closed lip smile spans further, her orange eyes crinkling at the corners. "You will be good for us, very good," she mutters. I don't think I was meant to hear because she turns away and is gone before I can ask what she meant.

These lizards seem to have something in their heads that I don't.

As for me, there's still that one question. _When was the last time you slept? Like, really, peacefully slept?_

I start to wonder who it is I'm asking. Me or Ghirahim?

* * *

There's a cheval mirror by the far wall, held up on a frame of gold studded with diamonds. I stare down the length of the bed, moving my feet so I can see it better. It stares back, the little figure in its glass mimicking my movement. The vanity mirror is adjacent to that, to my right, set against the wall between the door to the living area and the mystery door.

Speaking of which, I had ventured to see what lied beyond that door. The dark heavy wood had opened up into a tunnel of square-stacked stone. To the left was a solid wall—dead end. To the right was a never-ending passageway lined with cobwebs and darkness. A servant tunnel? Old manors in the Knowing Realm had such passageways. I left it unexplored, and instead ventured to the other wooden door right across from mine. It led into Ghirahim's room, where more mirrors greeted me with the sight of my own face. I quickly backed out of there.

For emergencies he said. Was he talking about the tunnel or his room? What kind of emergencies did he have in mind? Why the heck would I need to go over into his room? In case I have a nightmare? Hah! Now there's a thought.

 _You control the lock._ A small comfort when he can just as easily teleport in here, but a comfort it is and it lessens the uneasiness rolling around in my gut. That's as close as I'm going to get to an admission of respect. He won't enter without permission. He's truly given me my own space.

And yet…

The mirrors stare at me. Their reflective surfaces remind me where I am, a small plain figure in a moderate but lavish room. The polished rosewood of the furniture shines, the gold and diamond and silver trimmings glitter, and even the dark velvet of the canopy bed has its own sheen. And then there's me. A brown hen with dull feathers wrapped in shimmery falsities. At least in the tower I knew my position.

I'm still waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me.

And wait I do. I wait. And wait.

And wait.

He told me to lie still and rest, but my muscles ache for stimulation. I take to passing the time looking through all my (should I even call them mine?) new things. There are the brushes and combs, of course, on the vanity along with vials and jars of pastes and powders. Make-up, I think. Ghirahim has to know I'll never wear it. I mean, do I look like the type that does? We'll be lucky if I get around to using just the comb. I avoid mirrors for a reason, and not just because they remind me of the face I lost. I just don't care enough to take care of what I have.

After inspecting the vanity I open the armoire he had pointed out and find it filled with different sleeping gowns, all made of the same silky lightweight texture, in varying colors. I wonder where he got them from. I suppose it doesn't matter. More importantly, I have yet to find a pair of underwear.

Shut up, I tell myself. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. You have food and clothes and you're out of the cold wind—shut up. Do you want to make him angry? Don't dare ask for more.

I turn around and look at the bed with a contrary frown. I know he told me to lie down. I know he's acting strangely and for that I should want to obey faster for fear of his rage, but…

The hazy daylight has all but faded from the windows, the stained glass dull compared to what it was this morning. Even a lazy person has their limits. I've laid down long enough.

With shoulder wound tingling still, I wander back out into the living area.

I'm getting used to seeing him on that couch, more used to seeing all those dusty books. Why does it feel like I've been in this part of the castle much longer than I have?

I take one look at him and know it's not good. He's hunched over, rubbing at his eyes, mumbling to himself. A heavy-set tome lays open and waiting on the tea table in front of him.

He's so out of it he doesn't notice my approach.

"Master," I begin gently, because startling him would surely earn me a dagger between the eyes.

He jumps anyway, instantly straightening his back and glaring at me with all he can muster—which is a lot coming from that black gaze. "What!" he snaps. His eyes narrow. "What are you doing up? Can you not do as I say for five minutes?!"

I stand with a displaced sense of calmness, something I shouldn't be feeling in his presence, especially as he is now. "It's been all day."

"Has it?" He slumps back into the sofa, looking weary and dazed. He glances at a small cedar-carved clock sitting above the mantel piece. "…So it has."

My eyes roam over the books scattered about. "How long have you…?" I clear my throat, try again. "Um…any luck?"

"Luck?" His voice rises once more, glare reemerging. He flings an arm to all the paper surrounding him. "Does it look like I've had any _luck_?"

My brows come down. "Uh-huh. You need to…"

His black eyes cut to me, piercing.

I go quiet, rein myself in. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don't go _telling_ him anything. Don't forget who you're dealing with. You can't go making demands. Now suggestions on the other hand…

"Maybe…" I lightly clear my throat. "Perhaps if you rested your eyes you might—"

"I haven't the _time_!" He yanks the entire tea table towards him and bends over it instead of, you know, just pulling the book closer. The wood creaks in his grip. "I must find a way—there _has_ to be a way."

My expression hardens, cementing my frown into place. "You're a demon. You have all the time in the world. When was the last time you slept?" Finally I ask the question I've wanted to ask.

Ghirahim waves a hand like he's shooing an annoying fly from his ear. "Doesn't matter. I told you I don't need sleep."

"You've got a pretty big bed for someone who doesn't sleep," I say prickly. Just as quickly I bite my tongue. I shuffle forward, cautious. "You might see something you wouldn't have if you gave your eyes a rest."

His glare finds me, glinting coldly. He holds me with his eyes, eyes that are red at the corners. Bloodshot.

"Just one hour," I persist. "Just close your eyes for one hour."

He doesn't budge.

Irritation leaks through in spite of my self-given warnings. "One measly hour, Master. Your master will still be waiting for you, it's not like he's going anywhe—"

The table flips in an uproar of paper and leather-bound spines. It crashes against the neighboring sofa. The _cling!_ of his teleportation singes the air and then he's standing in front of me, roughly cupping my face in his hands.

Daggers appear in zings of diamond fractals, circling us, their tips glowing a wrathful red.

I stand frozen, staring into the face of a beast of rage, so immobilized that not even my expression moves save for my widened eyes.

"Don't you dare speak of him," he hisses, his prominent canines bared. "My master has waited _centuries to be free_. I will not stand to have him wait any longer than he must. And you! You little wretch! Speaking as if you know! If you were _anyone else_ …" The black fire in his glare flares to burst. His fingers curl into my cheeks like claws, his fangs wielded and ready to tear my throat out. He leans in, our noses nearly touching. " _You'd be dead_."

From the corner of my eye I see the daggers flash.

My pulse thrums against his hands. Both the she-wolf and ewe scream for release. Only the wolf's hackles are shown. "So what?" I spit the words. Then, quickly, at behest of the ewe I throw out, "She's in the same boat."

His glimmer of confusion stalls the flames. The daggers suspended in the air stop their circling.

Before he can rip my face off, I continue, "Zelda's not going anywhere. The spirit maiden," I clarify, because he likely doesn't remember her name.

He blinks slowly, as if allowing his thoughts to catch up to his ire. He leans back from me, letting me breathe again, but does not let go. "The spirit maiden…" Slowly his grip eases. "Kya. You're…" He blinks rapidly and sways ever so slightly. The black fire extinguishes. He refocuses on me. "You're bleeding."

The daggers fall to the floor, clattering and then disappearing in little fractal blasts.

I feel a warm bead of blood forming on one of the crimson crescents his nails have created.

He rubs at them with his thumbs.

I don't look away from his glazed eyes, barely focused on what he's doing. "One—one hour." My voice shakes. "It'll help you see better. More cost effective in the end."

"You think you know everything," he mutters, his thumbs stilling.

"No," I argue. "It's just what I figure."

"…And what was that you said about the spirit maiden?" Again his thumbs stroke, one brushing just below my eye. It stops at the corner of my cheek. He presses it there firmly, over the skin he had pierced.

I don't see any harm in telling him. "She's stuck. On the other side of the Gate. She can't go anywhere, so it's not like she can get away."

His stare loses some of its tired glaze. "And how do you conclude that?"

"I don't conclude. I just know."

His eyes sharpen fully. "What did you see? You better not be keeping anything from me, _little bird_."

I scrunch my nose. "I'm not! I just—bits and pieces. She's stuck, all right? That's what I know. She'll still be where she is now no matter what, is the point. You can lay down for a little bit. Seriously. Y-You're stressing yourself out."

His gaze narrows. "You wouldn't be saying this to protect her by any chance, would you?"

"I don't need to protect her," I shoot back unthinkingly. "She has her _champion_. It's you I…er, I mean…" I catch myself. "J-Just go lay down for a while! I'll keep looking for a way if it makes you feel better." I pull away from him and snatch up a book to make my point.

"You're quite insistent." He looks at me for what seems like a long time. Then, quietly, "Are you worried about me, Kya?"

Pride grits my teeth. "You won't make me say it." But by saying that, I practically had.

His eyelids lower to half-mast. "…One hour, then." And then he has me between his hands again. He leans down and kisses my cheek. He brushes past me, the scent of winter lingering like his fingers did, gently cupping my face. He stops before the hall leading to his room. "And Kya?"

I turn my head ever so slightly, just to show I'm listening.

"You will never refer to my master with any trace of disrespect again, in your tone or otherwise."

My heart pounds. I nod.

His room's metal doorknob whines in his tightening grasp. " _Say it_."

"Yes, Master."

After his door clicks shut I right the table and reorganize the scattered books and pages, going about business like that didn't just happen. Because it couldn't have.

I mean, the outburst totally happened and I should've seen it coming. His master. Touchy subject. Don't mention again.

But…

He's pressed his lips to my temple before in a blank imitation of a kiss, and that's all. He's never applied anything more, never given the pleasant pressure of a real kiss, or left behind the tender sound of lips parting from flesh.

 _Except just now_ , my brain supplies. I shush it. Don't think that way about him, I tell it. Loving your enemy doesn't include kissing! It was nothing—it didn't happen. Shush. _He almost stabbed you._

I push my thoughts onto other things. I think of the way he was swaying, of how he was mumbling and blinking as if to clear his head. Sleeplessness had him acting like an angry drunk. I don't have good experiences with drunks, and I wonder how I had managed to get away with only scratches on my face.

 _Freakin' Uncle Lewis would have hauled off and cracked me across the jaw_ , I think as I sit down to peruse the first book. Uncle Lewis was always an angry man and when he drank he lost all inhibition of keeping that anger in check. Poor Aunt Pitty.

Blankly I stare at the first page of the book I picked up.

And then I stare some more.

At all the squiggles I can't read.

" _Well_ ," I breathe, " _shit biscuits._ "

But I don't let the unknown, yet slightly familiar, language stop me. I told him I'd keep looking, after all. I should probably keep my word, to toss some solid honesty amongst the half-truths and lies. But I can't feel bad. He doesn't need to know about that second Gate of Time. Not yet.

 _Maybe not ever._

But it's a foolish thought. Because Ghirahim isn't the type to give up. Ever.

The clock ticks away on the mantel, the fire beneath burning low, and it isn't long before the squiggles start to run together. And how long had he been at it? Days? Without sleep at that. No wonder he was in such a disheveled state.

Before I know it the hour is up.

I stare at the softly dinging clock with dull interest. I turn back to the books and let the hour go by without announcement. And then two, and then three. With every one that passes I tell myself he needs more. I don't care if he yells at me…or worse.

After the fifth hour I hear a shout and a crash. He comes bursting out of his room shortly after.

"Why didn't you wake me?!" He hauls in air, shakes the walls with his voice. "Kya, you little idiot!"

"What!" I take the large book I was 'reading' and hold it up like a shield, shoving my nose in it. "It's fine! I'm still lookin', see? Geez…"

He pauses, catches his breath. "…Are you reading that book upside-down?"

"What?" I glance at the cover. "Pssh. No."

Ghirahim descends the few steps into the lounge, carding a hand through his hair. "They are written in the ancient tongue," he says slowly. "Did your people in the sky keep records of the old language? Do you know what you're reading?"

I peer up from the book guiltily.

Realization opens his eyes wide. "You can't read them. You told me you'd search in my stead and you can't even _read_!"

"Shhh, I'm waiting for something to pop out at me. Maybe it'll cause a vision to start."

He locks me with a flat glare. "Turn the book right-side up first."

I delicately turn a page, click my tongue. "Why aren't there any pic-tures?"

Ghirahim heaves a sigh and runs a hand down his face. "Oh gods…"

Surprisingly that's how we end up teaching each other to read.

"Quit harking on me. So what if I can't read ancient Hylian? I can read the modern Hylian. Besides, you can't read English," I snip, beginning the whole fiasco.

He lays out a piece of parchment, hands me an inked pen, and makes me write his name in English, and then again in Hylian. I do so with deliberate slowness—to annoy him. Or maybe to help him see exactly what I'm doing. The Hylian letters are blocky and disjointed compared to their smooth English counterparts. I can keep the pen on the paper for most of the English, whereas the Hylian requires me to lift the pen more often to add accents and tick marks.

I finish writing both versions of his name, sitting back to regard my handiwork. My heart pings wistfully at the English writing.

Suddenly his hand slips over mine and he takes the pen. Above my writing he writes out his name in the ancient language, in what Hylian used to look like before the goddess raised Skyloft into the clouds all those centuries ago. I study the three versions of his name. The ancient text was actually slightly closer to English. Or maybe it's because Ghirahim's handwriting is smoother than mine.

He holds the pen out to me once more. "Now your name," he says with a hint of excitement. Is he actually enjoying this?

 _Well, yeah,_ I chide myself. He always gets excited about new things. Something new. Something to break the monotony of what he already knows.

What's more surprising is that I find I'm enjoying myself too.

I take the pen. "Which one?" I scoff without thinking.

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "Which one…?"

I realize my mistake. My heart stutters. "W-Well, yeah. Kya or…or little bird?"

His suspicion doesn't relax as much as I'd like it to. "Kya, of course. You little twit."

I write 'twit' just to spite him.

He smacks me upside the head. Though it is nothing like the smacks he used to give me. His hand barely grazes me, merely sends a portion of my hair flying into my face. I blow it out of my eyes and then I print my name out for real. He runs his fingers over the finished letters in an almost tender fashion, a strange look in his eyes, like he's sleepy. But not the weariness I insisted he be rid of. No, this look is more…peaceful.

I watch him with a scrunched brow.

He blinks out of it. "Now for the entire alphabet. All of them."

The next thing I know we have all the letters of all three languages spread out on a large piece of parchment. His eyes roam the freshly inked contents, fascination making them glitter. He bites his lower lip delightedly. "Wonderful, wonderful…"

The clock strikes three past midnight.

The chimes yank Ghirahim from his satisfied daze. "Damn! Look what you've done! You've taken me completely off track."

My brows rise in astonishment. "Language, Master?"

"Oh, shut up!" He waves a hand at me and pulls a tome from the table. "Don't distract me again. I must find a way to revive my master." He plunges right into the book, eyes scanning the pages faster than any human could read.

I lean back into the couch cushions and pout. Then, making up my mind, I grab a book as well.

His gaze flicks briefly towards me. "What are you doing?"

"Helping, I guess."

"You don't even know what any of it says."

I reach out and pull the alphabets we'd just written closer.

He regards my action steadily. "That will take forever." He pauses. "Although… I suppose it will help your slow mind to grasp the language."

"Thanks," I say dryly and start matching up letters. Then I mumble, "At least I'm helping. You're welcome."

He says nothing.

We sit in silence, side by side, working, when suddenly he reaches over and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear.

I think it's as close to a 'Thank you' as I'll ever get.

* * *

The hours of the night blur together. I don't know when I nod off. I just wake up with my head in Ghirahim's lap again, his fingers winding and unwinding in my hair. He's moved the book onto the arm of the sofa. The scene is so familiar I feel displaced. I listen for rain and thunder. The crackling of the fire is all I hear.

I take in his hair and his makeup, neither showing any proof of his earlier nap. Though, somehow, I can still tell he's tired.

He catches me staring. A smirk tugs the corner of his mouth. "Like what you see?"

My lips pinch into a tight line. Well, exhausted or not, he's still an ass. "Pretty as ever, Master." My tone delivers firmly with not an ounce of the sarcasm I intended.

His smirk leaps into a smile of gleaming teeth, his hand delving into my hair to lightly scratch my scalp. Like I'm a dog or something. But I'm too distracted by that…that surprisingly wonderful smile that I can't bring myself to be bothered.

"Your aura is jumping…" His eyes take on a contemplative spark. "Sit up a minute."

I do as he says. He takes my hand in both of his. He traces the blue veins running up to my knuckles, and then to the veins stretching like little rivers down the underside of my arm. I hadn't noticed his fingertip was glowing gold until it stops.

"Not a trace of magic in you," he murmurs. "A pity. But that's normal for you humans, isn't it." He is silent for twenty beats of my heart, and I wonder what his point is. Then: "It was purely your aura that was culprit for shattering the barriers. Every single one you've run through…"

"What's the difference?" I ask, trying desperately not to mind the tingling sensations his cool fingertips leave on my skin—like ice on a burn. "Between aura and magic, I mean."

He smiles grimly. "Those with their heads in the clouds know nothing, hmm? Your goddess kept you safe but ignorant."

"Not mine," I remind him firmly. "Not my goddess."

"I know, darling." There's something warm in his eyes, an ice melting. "My statement stays true regardless." His fingers probe the soft underside of my forearm. He laughs softly. "I'm unsure how to explain this in terms you'll understand. I'll keep it as simple as possible."

My disgruntled glare is solidly ignored.

"Think of your aura as your life-force. It runs through you like blood from your heart. Spill enough of that precious fluid and you'll die." He eyes the veins of my wrist hungrily, with a sudden unhinged grin.

Wariness knots in my stomach.

"Now, magic…" He traces swirling patterns around my tendons. "Magic is like another set of veins; a neighbor to your life-force but not a bedmate. One could completely exhaust their magic reserves and be fine. One's aura on the other hand… Well, like I said, you'd be dead."

His eyes and smile take on a contemplative vibe. "A skilled sorcerer could tap into their aura and pull upon it if their magic ran out. They'd have to be desperate—to do so would put their life at risk. But you…" He peers at me through low lashes. "You, without magic, have gone directly to your aura and used it without permanent damage to your being. That…fluctuating life-force of yours, rising and falling so easily…" He reaches a hand to cup my face, the other staying on my wrist, fingers caressing.

"Y-Yeah?" I prompt, hoping my face hasn't turned red. It feels hot against his palm. Why the heck is he so touchy?

"Do you know how extraordinary it is," he breathes, "that you've been able to use your aura like a weapon? That it's replenished all of its own accord—immediately after you've used it?"

"N-No…?"

Ghirahim laughs, the sound resonating deep in his chest. "It's almost beyond believing, darling. To have a human whose aura burns as small as an insect one moment, only for it to flare bright as a goddess's the next. If I hadn't sensed the spirit maiden I might have thought you were her…provided your aura ever stayed stable. Are you…certain you're human?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation. But something pricks at the back of my mind. Something Zelda said. _Her soul is more than that, more than what any of us could imagine. She is not alone…_

 _Not alone…_

 _There's another Spirit in with mine. A source to the well that never runs dry._

Impossibly smooth lips press to the vulnerable skin of my wrist. His tongue dances out briefly.

My heart jumps. I freeze, daring not to move.

With my wrist still held captive, the fingers of his other hand glide further up my arm.

I suppress a shiver.

"Do you know how you do it? What about on the bridge, when you blasted everyone away? That wasn't the first time you'd done that."

I say nothing, but my uncertain look is answer enough.

"…You can't even control it, can you? You're only half aware when it happens, too. I saw you, standing there with your mouth open, blinking stupidly." His quiet laughter is low and dark. "It's all right, darling. We'll figure it out. For now…"

We return to the books, my arm still tingling with the cold fire of his touch.

* * *

 **A/N: The pace may seem to be slowing, but bear with me. It takes off next chapter, and the action in chapter 22 propels us to a whole new set of actions in chapter 23. I'm keeping it going. Thank you again for the gentle prods and advice.  
**


	21. hot and cold

**A/N: Well, I got this one out a _little_ faster. Thank you ****autumn-lee-chan,** **Moon ninja Luna,** **Mokki Takashi,** **Meta-Akira, Guest** (Aw, thank you. I'm happy you enjoy it so much.) **, Bluebadger** (I don't like rushed plots either. I'll work to keep my pacing steady. Thank you for the encouragement!) **, ForEVER n EVERs** (Thank you, I will!) **, Luna Latanya, Pineapple** (I think so. Things are definitely going somewhere. We'll see.) **, Alter Ego Bob** (I'm glad; that's what I try to do.) **,** **and MoonlightDovakiin** (Thank you! I'll keep at it.) **for your reviews last chapter!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 21**

The days fall into each other, one after the other.

We've scoured every book in his library. Just when we're flipping through the last few, however, he snaps his fingers and in pops a dozen more. They tumble down in a heap on the tea table which, luckily, didn't have any teacups to be knocked over.

"Where'd these come from?" I ask, aghast at the new book pile sprawled before us.

He rummages through them and picks out the ones most likely to yield results. "The library of course, you silly bird. Where do you think?"

"This…this isn't the library we're in?"

He regards me coolly. "How cute. No, darling, this is simply my private study. Perhaps I'll show you the real library sometime."

He never gets around to it, though. The search must go on. A search I'm not wholly invested in—something I can't let him know. So I act the part and dutifully, if slowly, wade through as many pages as I can.

But I am human and there always comes the time when I must break away. I return to my room to sleep at night. I eat the food Essil brings me in my room too, because I refuse to eat in front of Ghirahim for fear he'd find something to chastise me about. I use the bath every chance I get. Or I did, until Ghirahim started scolding me about my shoulder again and made me revert to sponge baths. The worst part: He tried to help me.

"No, _nonono_!" I backed up into the counter, clutching at the towel I had around myself, arching away from the wet cloth in his hand. "I can do it myself. S-Seriously, I'm fine."

His glare was unimpressed. "Then I'll have Shii do it. I won't have you pulling your shoulder reaching."

"No, no," I insisted. "I won't pull anything. I can—"

"She'll be in shortly—and she better not find you submerged in that water!"

I had to wash myself down with Shii standing awkwardly in the corner.

"Really?" I said to her.

She let out a heavy sigh. "As my lord commands. He doesn't trust you with the water anymore, and that's your own fault, human, for staying in there for a whole _hour_."

I didn't get it. What was so concerning about water? I kept my shoulder out of it for the most part when I bathed, but he wasn't having any of my explanations. I didn't want to push it, since his mood has been all over the place, and I don't think he's slept since that one meager nap…

"Maybe it's time to turn in," I suggested once or twice, only to have him wave me off and say he'd see me in the morning—and to be sure not to sleep on my bad shoulder, of course. "What about you?" I had the audacity to ask once. He glared and went straight back to combing books.

Workaholic, I thought bitterly, reminded of my parents. At least he's around, came another thought. I shut the door on it and crawled into bed, but I couldn't forget the notion. I didn't sleep well that night any better than I had in the rest of them. Something just didn't sit well with me. I knew what it was, but didn't know how to confront it.

I still don't know how to confront it, sitting here next to him, helping him look for a way to free a master I don't want freed.

I lose focus on my current book, letters fuzzing out on the parchment that's become my own personal Rosetta Stone. I wonder what he'd do to me if he knew…and suddenly I can't answer that as clearly as I could have before. He'd tear me to shreds for sure, but then there's a part of me that doubts. I must be careful of that side, must be careful not to let my guard down.

Which is why I let myself cling to the surreal air surrounding this whole arrangement. The nice room, the good food, the… _carefulness_...Ghirahim is regarding me with. The whole thing is like a frighteningly lucid dream. The constant ache running down my back from my wound is all that's giving testament to reality. The crescent marks he left on my face, reminiscent of the blemishes my former life's face had dealt with, had already healed save for the one little scab prick where he'd broken skin.

I stare at the demon lord from the corner of my eye. Just this morning, when I had come out from my room, he was snapping at me about my wound. Be careful how you walk, be careful how you move, be careful—"Geez, man!" I snapped in exasperation. "I'm fine, I'm not gonna fall apart just 'cause I miss a step!"

He simmered me with a glare, his fingers drumming irritably on a hardcover. He returned to his tome with a silent huff, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. "Don't come crying to me," he said darkly.

He hadn't finished saying it before I froze on the steps, one foot down and one above, cringing as pain ripped through my shoulder and up my neck. I had craned my head and stretched it too far.

He caught sight of my scrunched face, slamming the tome shut and standing. "What did I tell you!"

"I-I'm…fi…ne." I said it through my teeth.

"If you are fine, come here to me." He reached out a hand.

He watched me walk like a flared cobra, with unblinking, piercing gaze. His hand closed around mine when I reached him. He was quiet, and then he murmured, "You are not fine. It's not healing, is it? It was that damnable brat's sword." He snapped the fingers of his free hand and in popped Shii in an array of gold and yellow diamonds. "I want that red potion, Shii, or something close to it, soon, or I'm going to start chopping off fingers for every day you make me wait. Is that understood?"

I sputtered objections.

Shii took his words with a calm bow and left.

 _He's still dangerous_ , I'm reminded. No matter how concerned and…and protective…he's been acting.

Before that he had come into the room he'd given me in the earliest hours of the morning to check on me. He physically turned me over so I wasn't on my bad side, huskily whispering if he caught me on that side again he'd tie me to the bedposts and make me sleep that way.

My heart stutters.

He's been acting like an angry mother hen, and it's scaring me. I don't know what to expect now more than ever. Is he going to tuck me in and spoon feed me next? Right after he cuts off body parts from his Lizalfos servants for failing to meet his expectations? I shudder at the dissimilarities. Soft and sharp. Blade and silk. Which is he? He can't be both.

The ewe and the she-wolf share a glance, but say nothing.

* * *

They scrape enough ingredients together for a red potion. It's thick and pasty and Essil had to mix it with her special herbs to fill it out, but, oh well. It's something, and I breathe a sigh of relief for her intact fingers. She slathers it on for me and almost immediately the pain reduces from a deep ache to a gentle stinging.

"It's working," I whisper, like anything louder would break the miracle of it.

Essil smiles, relief evident in her orange stare.

Despite Essil's careful wrappings and her reports and my own insistence of well-being, Ghirahim checks on the wound every night before I go to bed. "Come here," he says, and I do because I must. Lack of sleep has caused an increase in violent outbursts. To disobey is out of the question.

I sit with my back to him and bear his ministrations; his hand pushing my hair away, his cold fingers stroking like winter-kissed feathers along the sutures.

After three nights: "Finally," he sighs, either in relief or with impatience satiated at last. I tell myself it's the latter because he cannot possibly care. Not truly. I am merely the book he cannot replace, one he would not dare throw into the fire until he was absolutely sure I had no more use. Though that wouldn't stop him from tearing out a page or two if I displeased him.

It's those thoughts that keep me still, even as his breath tickles the hairs on my nape or as his hands close around my arms, thumbs caressing.

His nose nudges just behind my ear. He sighs. "You smell sweet," he murmurs. "I never noticed before…"

"The wonders of bathing," I retort dryly.

His thumbs still and his grip tightens.

I resist the urge to tense, fight to draw in breath normally. I must appear calm.

"…You must think me horrid for leaving you up there so long with nothing," he says, and I know he's talking about the tower.

"I didn't say that. I've never said that."

"Oh, but you imply it." His fingers coil further, tightening to the point of pain. The sweet tone he continues with belies his nettling wrath. "Haven't I given you everything you need? Haven't I kept you safe and warm and dry?"

"Yes, Master." I keep my tone flat. "Thank you."

His thumbs resume their stroking, swiftly and irritably. Then, with a deflating sigh, he wilts around me, pressing his face into my neck. His mouth opens against my skin, warm tongue touching languidly.

I can't help it. I shiver. "W-What are you doing?" I whisper, afraid.

"Hmm." He breathes in. His smile feels jagged. "Kissing my favorite servant goodnight. Go on."

He lets me go, pushes me to stand.

I walk stiffly, fighting against every fiber of my being that wants to run. Fighting harder still against the part of me that wants to run back into his choking embrace. _I must be insane._

"Darling…"

I stop just before my door, peer cautiously over my shoulder.

He smiles innocently, lashes lowered over his dark eyes. "Sweet dreams."

I click the door shut behind me. Shadows skitter to the corners of the room, driven there by yellow candles that have suddenly come to light. The little flames tremble in their shelters carved from the stone walls.

I stand shaking.

With all my foreknowledge I still can't figure him out.

The air is cold and smells of steel.

Or perhaps it is blood I smell.

I peel the wrappings and the gauze away. Picking up the silver backed hand mirror, I use it to gaze at the full length mirror behind me. My wound grins at me with red lips and black teeth.

The room is quiet before me, the windows dark with night. The bed lies neat with not a wrinkle in its coverlet, as if I had never lain in it before, offering no condolences but the tempting retreat of sleep. I oblige and burrow under the sheets. It doesn't stop the trembling, from me or from the light scratching against the walls.

In my journey to sleep, I find the subtle embroidery on the coverlet is of tiny feathers. I trace them with my finger.

The sun pushes its rays through the veil of clouds without my eyes having closed once. The candles taper out, leaving the milky glow of yet another hazy morning.

He's no better off than when I left him.

I didn't think his ashen skin could get paler. The warming firelight of the hearth does little to disguise the opaque sheen running down his arms and peeking through the diamond holes lining his gloves. His face is shadowed, his eyes glazed, but he keeps reading, keeps looking for a way.

I stand at the top of the steps leading down into the center room's indent, something twisting in my chest. My fists ball into my night gown and I think of what I'll have to do to make this stop.

 _I can't tell him, not yet._

There must be something else.

"Master…fight me."

He glances up like he didn't hear. "Hm?"

"I'm bored. Fight me."

His eyes sharpen, his brow furrows.

I descend the steps. "Throw knives at me. You love doing that."

The ewe gawks in terrified silence. _Are you insane, are you insane?_ The she-wolf teeters anxiously. _Can I really, can I really?_

Ghirahim glares fully. "I knew you were dull-witted but I never thought you were outright stupid. That wound is still healing, Kya."

When I push the issue, he hits me with a glower that slices me to the bone. I can almost feel it—the blade cutting in. So I draw back and let it drop. But not for good. I haven't seen him truly smile in… Weeks? Days? Well, whichever, it seems like a long time. When was it last?

…Oh yes, when he was about to run Impa through with his sword. He was grinning like a psycho.

Nowadays the air about him is always charged with irritable static and dark melancholy. It shouldn't bother me. I shouldn't want to see him smile—especially for what makes him smile, but…

There is a part of me that does. There is a part of me restless and pawing that hates this state he's in.

I'm surprised that it's the ewe.

The wolf has her hackles raised, but also wants to play; the ewe sees it as a job that must be done. He's angry, she baes. And he's dangerous when he's angry. He is hurt, and it hurts when he is sad.

So let's cheer him, growls the she-wolf. But, dammit, don't get too close.

Their warnings echo clear, one of must-do compassion and one of playfully lined pragmatism.

"Master…"

He glances up tiredly…and warily. "What." It wasn't a question, and I can tell he'd rather I didn't speak. There is a warning glinting in his eyes.

I twist my lips and weigh my options. What's the _fastest_ way to get him to kick my ass? "…Your make-up's smudged."

He snaps his fingers and in appears a round mirror fitting neatly in his palm. He observes himself sternly, turning his face left and right. "It is not. I don't know what it is you're trying to pull, but be careful darling." His black eyes burn into me. "I wouldn't want to have to do anything…drastic."

" _Do it_ ," I whisper in English.

" _What was that?_ " He responds in kind.

The venom in his tone is enough to make me falter. "N-Nothing, Master. I just…wanted you to play with me, like you did in the tower."

The tome he holds groans under the ferocity of his grasp. He pointedly says nothing, and returns to his search.

 _You're poking a sleeping cobra_ , my good sense tells me.

Really, it was only a matter of time before I got bitten. But what should have frightened me more was that I wanted to be bit.

* * *

I don't know what pushed him over the edge. It wasn't while I was ramming him for a fight, which was why it blindsided me.

It's hard to imagine it was because I picked up too many books and cried out from the pain of my strained wound.

He shot up from his seat and screamed at me. "What in the damned hells do you think you're doing? Drop them, you fool!"

I did so in an instant, the tomes hitting the floor with clapping _thunks!_ I gawked while he seethed. That was the most I'd ever heard him curse.

If he isn't sitting there, depressingly shifting through ancient tomes, he's watching me.

I wince, he snaps. I yelp, he shouts.

And now he's glaring at me while I tip-toe about the towers of books like a lost creature looking for shelter among the trees.

"Master…" I start uncertainly, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

There's something unhinged about the way he's staring at me. "Don't you ever think before you act?" he hisses. "It's because of you we're in this mess."

His fingers curl and uncurl, and the darkness on the walls closes in and out. His aura or his magic is causing it. It's buzzing in the air around us, angry black wasps swarming before a storm, and even someone as unattuned as I can feel it.

I blink and he's gone.

I blink again and he's in front of me, his pale face eclipsing my view of anything else. His breath is hot and cold all at the same time, smelling of steel and burning coals and icy bullets. And a coppery hint of…something far more sinister. "You should have known it was coming. If you weren't fooling around it wouldn't have happened!"

I keep the tremors inside me, standing still and tall and blank. I knew he might blame me—was actually surprised he hadn't done so sooner.

"Your hesitation and your wretched bumbling led to this. If you hadn't tried interfering with the Sheikah dog, if you had done as I said and taken care of the spirit maiden, she wouldn't have gotten away and you—you wouldn't have…!" He glances over my shoulder, gaze clouding. "It won't happen again…" he murmurs, and the flailing darkness settles back into the shadows.

He sends me to have my bandages changed. And that night, like every night, he checks the wound.

I don't feel the need to rile him, or to provoke him anymore. Something tells me I've done enough, and the ewe shivers in regret. The she-wolf, on the other hand, grumbles in dissatisfaction.

But she doesn't grumble long.

My wound finally starts mending, the torn flesh which refused to heal on its own coming together.

And that's when he takes me from the rooms I've grown so accustomed to.

He leads me down halls of beige stone and colored glass to corridors of black stone and twisted metal. His pace is brisk. He glances only a few times to make sure I've kept up. We take a final turn and come to a door of burnt iron. The snap of his fingers loosens the locks and slides them out of place. It opens with a shriek. We enter a domed room, the walls lined to the teeth with swords and daggers of all shapes and sizes. The floor is wide and bare. Stone tiles of faded gray and green with a burst of yellow in the center are all that lends the flat space dimension.

The swords and daggers on the walls quiver when Ghirahim steps into the center, magnetically pulled by an energy I can't see.

He swirls to face me, holding out his arms in gesture to all that surrounds him. "Pick one."

I hesitate, eyes darting to all the blades. "What…exactly's going on?"

"You wanted to play, did you not? Well, now we are to play. _Pick one._ " His smile is strained, impatience brimming in his cold stare.

I don't dawdle. I go for the familiar—a jagged dagger as long as my forearm, the steel of it dark and cool, the hilt a night green. I return to the center of the room to stand before Ghirahim.

He eyes the dagger with cool indifference. I think he'd rather I chose a sword. "Just one? Very well, I suppose that's for the best considering your condition. We'll focus on your right arm only." He holds out his right arm, his black sabre materializing in his grip in a spurt of black fractals. "But you've put yourself at a disadvantage lengthwise."

We stand staring at each other.

A glint, like the turning of a blade, sparks in his eye. "You want me to make the first move? And you were so _eager_. Very well."

He disappears in an array of gold diamonds, magic ringing clear as glass beads on metal.

I spin to intercept him from behind me. I've played this game. I know what to do.

My heart stops cold when his magic rings once more…from my back.

"We've done this before, darling—don't count on your foe to repeat mistakes!"

I roll to the side, the black blade whizzing by my ear. My hearts kicks into gear, my mind froths into overdrive. _He knew. He knew I'd spin to look behind me because that's—that's what I've always done. Because that's where_ he'd _always reappear._

And he'd caught that. He learned.

 _Not a game anymore. Not a game._

As we fight he makes that clear again and again. Ghirahim takes everything I learned from the game and twists it on its head. I scramble to dodge, I jerk up a quivering blade to block his. My swipes are short and quick, but never quick enough.

"Did they teach you anything up in those clouds? Or did you all fly around merrily like mindless little insects?"

I grind my teeth. "I wouldn't suck so bad if—if I could use both arms."

He circles me, pacing as a hungry wolf would. "It makes little difference with your skillset as it is. Come at me again, darling."

I don't know how long we go on. He makes me sweat, makes me huff. The coral gown I wear is shorter than the rest, brushing at my knees, its straps thicker, and now I understand why he made me change before we left the study. It tapers in at the waist and clings at the shoulders gently, keeping on me no matter how I move, while the skirt of it flares and allows easy movement.

"Get back up."

I do as told, stumbling to my feet from my knees.

This isn't normal, I think while he struts backwards, getting ready to summon his daggers. This isn't playing like we did in the tower.

No. This is…teaching.

His daggers spring into existence.

"You won't block any of them, understood? You will show me how you dodge and we'll go from there."

Well, he doesn't give me much of a choice. This isn't what I had in mind, but…I'll take it. If it stalls him from searching for his master's freedom. If it keeps that despondent air off him…if only for a little while.

I weave and jump and roll, my bare feet pushing off rough, cold stone, while coral fabric whispers about my legs. The daggers clink into the stone where they land. He's sending them at a slower pace; I realize it and bristle at the implications. I must look so weak to him. He must think I'm stupid, and frail, and—and worthless. Red-hot anger flashes behind my eyes. With all my might I chuck my dagger at him.

It flies past his head, about five feet too far to the left, bouncing off the far wall behind him.

He stares at me contemptuously. "You've made yourself weaponless." He tsks, eyes sliding to regard the fallen dagger. "And that throw must have been the most pathetic I've ever witnessed."

I sigh and wilt. Because he's right. The only reason I've ever kept up with him was due to my foreknowledge, and even I should have known that would have run out eventually.

He lifts his hand above his head and with a click of his fingers targets appear in the room. Another click and his daggers appear at my sides.

"Very well, then. We'll work on your aim."

I eye the things distrustfully. These blades have only ever cut me, now I must use them? The last time I tried didn't end well. Hesitantly, I grasp a floating dagger from the air. Just as hesitantly, I aim and fling. The blades fly harmlessly past, and over, and under the targets. My heart thuds in shame, but no matter how I try I can't get it. Silently I curse Eagus for never teaching anything like this in the Academy.

Ghirahim's face falls from incredulity to exasperation faster than a stone. "We're going to be here a while…" A velvet lined chair appears in an eruption of magic, and he sits himself in it, reclining with a hand held to his forehead.

Out of all the daggers I throw, only one hits the target—the very edge. They vanish in spritz, reappear at my sides just as they were, and I begin all over again. With a rapidly tiring right arm, I don't do any better.

Ghirahim's patience dries up. "Enough." He stands and the chair sinks into the floor in a puddle of dissolving black. A snap of his fingers and a sword flies from the wall and into his hand. He tosses it to me. "Catch."

I startle, lurching out my arm, my fingers closing around a faded hilt of blue and gray. It is a straight sword, long and thin.

He is beside me suddenly, the coolness of his skin brushing against the heat flushing mine. He adjusts my grip. "Do not be lackadaisical in your hold. Your grip will be firm." He closes his hand over mine, giving impression to his instructions. "Too loose and you lose your blade—a death sentence in your case. Too hard and you will tire your arm and inhibit the fluidity of your movements."

I listen and mimic his hold, all while trying to tunnel my thoughts into this. Pay attention, my good sense whispers. But it is difficult. Something doesn't feel right. I eye him warily. _Why teach me?_ _What are you getting out of this?_

He steps back, holding up his own blade, the red cape dispersing from around his shoulders. "Come, darling. Try to hit me."

I waver.

Ghirahim arches a brow.

I read the silent command behind the action. I lunge forward, jabbing.

He sidesteps me easily.

After the first move, it becomes easier. I continue on, going as if we were still in the tower and he has me cornered, has given me no choice. The she-wolf comes alive.

But then there is the ewe, shivering behind the wolf's happy fangs. She notices the glint in Ghirahim's eye. She knows this isn't a simple game to him, a way to pass the time, as it had been in the tower. No, he's watching my every movement, my every pull, my every push, my every step and bound.

His eyes grow darker. "You should have hit me by now. Why are you hesitating?"

"I'm not!" I snap breathlessly. "I'm still wounded, that might have something to do with it."

"No." He frowns. "It isn't that. Hit me!" He stills, spreading his arms out in welcome.

I skid to a stop, expression freezing over. "Wh…what?"

"Strike me. Run me through with your sword."

I look at him like he's crazy. "I…can't do that."

"You can. I command it."

With every second I let pass without striking him, his scowl grows deeper, his glare burning colder.

There's something bubbling up beneath the surface of him.

His chest begins heaving with emotion. The large diamond cut-out in the center of his chest bares him, imploring me to sink my sword into it, but I…

Ghirahim drops his arms. His hands shake. "Do you have any idea how close you came to dying?" His words are spoken on a whispered breath. "Do you have a clue, or are you doddering about in ignorant bliss? You cannot stand there and let an enemy slice you to pieces. Hesitate to kill them and they'll surely kill you. Is that what you want?"

I say nothing. I only stare, comprehension slowly peaking.

He snarls. "When I tell you to hit me, you hit me!"

I don't move.

Darkness pulls in from the walls, falling like mist from the domed ceiling. It washes around him, a figure of ghostly white stark against it. "Very well." His glare burns me. "We shall do this the hard way."

The chime of his teleportation shatters the silence, and then he's next to me, pulling me close. The room vanishes and we fall into blackness. My body feels the twist and yank of the traversing magic, and the steadily growing ache in my shoulder, dulled from potion after potion, comes growling to life. My breath leaves me.

We resurface, the dim of light refilling my lungs with air. Then I stand, silent, the beat of my heart running up into my head.

The room surrounding me is of solid black stone, smooth and continuous, without tile or scratch. It is a long room, with a ceiling that cannot be seen. The walls are segmented with jutting sections spaced evenly, coming out like teeth. Flames erupt, roaring sight into places that were pitch black.

We are in the center of the castle, in the deepest part.

I know it because at the very end of the room is a dais carpeted with crimson. A black throne sits on it.

"Why are we—? What are you planning?!" My voice escalates with my alarm.

Ghirahim smiles. A dark, mad grin, the likes of which I haven't seen in days.

I take a step back from him. _Why did you want him to smile again?_

From the blackest corners of the room, monsters creep forward. They are of all kinds, some with scales and some with bare skin and others covered in fur. There are claws and fangs and horns abound. Some of the monsters I know, and others I cannot identify.

My hand goes tight around the sword still in my grasp, my eyes jumping to all the beady eyes and fangs.

Ghirahim snaps his fingers, the sound echoing in this expansive space like a cracked whip.

A specific monster appears before us.

Ghirahim comes up behind me; I feel his hot breath pass over the shell of my ear, imparted by cold white lips. "Do you see that blue Bokoblin?" His fingers curl over my shoulders. He leans into my neck and smiles. "You're going to kill him."

* * *

 **A/N: Shout out to Alter Ego Bob for giving me a suggestion back before... Was it before chapter 16? ^_^' Anyway, I thought it was a good idea so I said I'd put it in the outlines when it'd make sense in the story. And now here it is! Thanks again Alter Ego Bob!  
**


	22. a slave's choice

**A/N: The flu and the stomach flu are not fun things to have. Especially not one right after the other.  
**

 **Thank you** **Voidlash,** **Alter Ego Bob, Moon ninja Luna, Mokki Takashi, Branded Lunacy, Guest (** And that's okay. I wrote her to be unlikable—maybe too unlikable, I admit—and too weak to overcome her grief. Reasons: realism and character development potential. **), MayBeADragon12, FruityDragon, Pineapple (** It's enough to know you like it. It means I'm still doing something right. **), Kyoki no Megami (** I'm glad you like it. Yes, it still gets updates...sometimes. ^_^' I welcome fanart. I'm actually still in awe anyone would want to draw for this story. O.O **), ForEVER n EVERs (** He is boss. **), MoonlightDovakiin (** Thank you. I hope you like this one too. **), and Bluebadger** **(** I understand completely. O_O Woo, do I. **)** **for your feedback last chapter.  
**

 **This chapter is 8, 340 words long, not including author's notes. Grab a cookie. Snuggle down. We're going on a roller-coaster ride.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 22**

I knew the curtain would have to rise eventually, knew the gentle touches and soft words would give way to something perhaps more horrifying than before. I knew and, secretly, maybe secret even to myself, I waited. In that time my nerves stretched thin and long, painful and raw. So, standing here now, being told that I must kill something—someone, comes with its own demented sense of relief.

"We'll fix that soft spot in your heart, darling."

I stare at the demon lord, aghast and barely believing. He stands not a foot from me, a figure of elegant white, casually straightening his gloves, as if he had told me to do something as mundane as taking out the garbage rather than what he has really asked of me. His black eyes meet mine expectantly.

My mouth works soundlessly.

"Well?" There is a grating hiss to his tone. He gestures to what I hold in hand. "You have your sword. Get to it."

I'm not given a chance to refute. Ghirahim speaks in the dark tongue and the Bokoblin charges.

I push backwards, legs straining, stumbling step by frantic step. I bring the sword up defensively, bracing my arm for impact.

The blue-skinned Bokoblin shoots towards me, surprisingly quick for such a clunky looking creature, and heaves his cleaver in a horizontal arc. It crashes into my blade. The loud clang of metal on metal rings in the air.

My arm quivers under the strain, the muscles weak, and I know I won't be able to hold it. I grit my teeth. "S-stop it, you—!"

The Bokoblin's beady eyes spark. He sees his chance and takes it. He shoves forward, and suddenly my own blade comes back to bite me.

A high-pitched keen smothers in my throat. Hot blood trickles from my collarbone—on the front of the very shoulder that was so badly wounded from Link's sword. Sirens of panic spike. I do what I must. I grab my blade near the tip, using the leverage and strength of both arms to push back. The sharp metal cuts into my fingers and lower palm. Pain jolts down my arm to meet the ache in my shoulder—both front and back.

The Bokoblin mimics me, placing his free hand on the flat of his cleaver—and I'm suddenly cursing myself for choosing a double-edged sword. He keeps the pressure on, angles it so that both my weapon and his might be forced into my neck.

The hisses and slithering jeers from the various monsters in the shadows reach my ears to join in with the rushing blood and rising panic. They're watching us as if this is some entertaining show.

Anger swells in me, gushes into the same stream as fear, and together they surge. I bare my teeth and snarl. " _Bitch!_ " I shove the Bokoblin and then lunge with my head. The space between my brows crunches into the creature's nose.

The Bokoblin stumbles back, blinking repeatedly. Blood oozes from his nostrils.

"Piss—off!" I slam my foot into his gut, sending him sprawling.

The monsters gathered at the edges of the black chamber writhe and growl in anticipation.

The blue Bokoblin just lies there, almost as if he were waiting.

"Why are you delaying?" Ghirahim's voice whips into my skull. I startle, meeting his cold eyes. "You're not actually going to let him back up, are you?"

Just as Ghirahim finishes saying it, the Bokoblin slowly rises.

The demon lord sneers. "You've only created more work for yourself."

Back on his feet, the Bokoblin wastes no time. He brings up his cleaver to reengage me.

I leap back, not intent on letting him.

We dance around each other. The Bokoblin lashes out, only for me to jump away, skittering from the edges of blade. The buzzing growl of the demonic horde creeps in from the walls, and it is their collective voices that stay me every time I lift my blade. I won't kill the Bokoblin, am reluctant to even wound him. Each swipe and stab is halted halfway, malicious intent sprouted by fear and anger crumbling through. I won't. And I don't have to. I know this, I tell myself. I've played this hundreds of times. The blue ones are more advanced, but still predictable, still—

My back hits something firm and cool, and when two pale arms wrap around me from behind I know who it is.

"Let me explain this in a manner in which you can understand." Ghirahim curls over me, rests his chin on my uninjured shoulder. "I don't know what kind of fantasyland you lived up above the clouds, and I don't frankly care, but down here on the surface"—He giggles—"things are different. There are situations where either you kill, or you _are_ killed."

My heart pounds against my chest, so solidly I'm sure Ghirahim must feel it. My eyes are wide and fixed on the blue Bokoblin, who has lowered his blade, awaiting his lord's command. The monsters at the edge of the chamber have also quieted.

"Do you understand?" Ghirahim moves his lips to the shell of my ear, and the breath of fire and coal speaks into it. "Those who hesitate die. And you"—his arms tighten with each word—" _are not_ — _permitted_ — _to die_. Is that understood?"

I clench my teeth together.

He jerks me in his iron hold, voice becoming a shouting gale in the echoic chamber. "I said, ' _Is that understood?_ '"

"Y—yes," I cry out, the pain in cuts both old and new weakening my resolve.

"Yes, _what?_ "

"Yes, Master!"

His vice-like grip loosens. I feel his smile at my ear. "Good. Good girl. My darling." His cold lips plant a kiss at my temple. He licks those lips when he pulls away, urges me forward with a hand at the small of my back. "Go on, my sweet. Show me you can. That's all I want for now."

That 'for now' does not bode well. I stagger stiffly, ice in my bones. "I don't…want to."

"It's not about what you want," he explains gently, as one would to a child. "It's about what must be done. No more games. The creature before you dies today. He knows it—they all do." Ghirahim indicates the monsters with a sweep of his arm.

Their hisses and growls acknowledge him.

"The only thing that's left to say is how. By your hand"—he reaches towards me, palm held out flat—"or by mine." His fingers curl into a fist, a malicious smirk quirking his mouth. "And let me assure you, my darling, if it's by my hand it will not be a quick death."

Something sick twists in my belly. I look at the Bokoblin, once again readying his cleaver.

 _I don't want—I can't—I—_

Pressure builds behind my eyes, closes my throat. Suddenly it's hard to breathe. Why is he doing this to me?

 _Such a soft heart you have_ , I remember him saying in the desert. _We'll have to do something about that._ My nails dig into the hilt of my sword. Dammit, I didn't think he'd actually follow through. Why couldn't he forget? Why is this so important to him?

Ghirahim speaks the dark tongue. Once again the Bokoblin lurches at me. And once again I dodge and skirt around. I don't want—I can't— There has to be some way out of this! My thoughts race, uselessly end up on Link and how he protected me on Eldin. He isn't here to deliver the death blows for me this time.

Ghirahim stands with his fists on his hips, a frown cutting his expression. He speaks again in the demonic dialect, nothing I can decipher, but something sounding harsh and vicious. Immediately afterwards the Bokoblin increases his aggressiveness, beady eyes going wide, scrunched burly nose scrunching further, the blood that had dried there cracking and flaking. He swings rapidly, swipe after swipe coming closer to hitting me with each try.

"No more running, Kya!" Ghirahim barks. "Fight!"

 _I don't want—I can't—_

I stumble and the cleaver slices into my thigh. Again I stumble, again it cuts. Again and again, my arm, my shin, and for the latter I'm sure it hits bone. I shriek each time, and each time something dark builds in me. Rage. Fear. And something else I cannot identify until I'm on the floor, scrambling backwards. Helplessness.

 _But that feeling is not unfamiliar... Go to sleep... Die... How…? No one answers… Wake up in a blue sky... Everything's perfect, but I'm not… Trapped here… No one answers…_

The Bokoblin lifts his cleaver above his head to bring it down on me.

Everything's far from perfect now. But at least I fit in…sort of. A smile spreads across my face. I look up at the cleaver with widened eyes. I begin to laugh, softly, wearily.

I'm not going to win, but neither will he.

A sliver of fear cracks the black wall of fury in Ghirahim's eyes. A dagger lodges into the Bokoblin's leg, and he screeches out, dropping his cleaver. Ghirahim shouts at him in words beyond my understanding.

My laughter disintegrates. I don't bother standing up. A part of me even dares to hope it's over.

Ghirahim grabs the back of my hair and yanks me to my feet. "Your blood is never to be spilt again," he hisses, a flash of fang punctuating his remark. "Not by you. Not by them. By no one. Except _me_. I expect you to make sure of it. This disinclination you have towards defending yourself will not be tolerated!"

I'm thrown back into the fight. Instinct wrestles for control, begs me not to lie down. I take on more wounds. Pain crackles through every fiber of me. Ghirahim's voice becomes louder. The horde of monsters at the walls become deafening. The noise grows and grows until it becomes too much. I hate them. I hate that they cheer for the death of one of their own. I hate Ghirahim for forcing me into this situation. I hate myself most of all. It would serve us both right if I just threw down my sword and died. I should. The spiteful part of me wants to. A part of me says _do it_.

He won't win, but neither…will I.

 _I can't—I don't want—_

Blood stains my coral gown. My heart pounds, my blood rushes. Something in me snaps, and another voice joins the first.

 _Survive._

 _Stay…alive._

The she-wolf leaps in front of the ewe, fangs bared. My mind goes blank. Another entity seems to sneak control from me. Slashes and lunges weave in with my dodging leaps and side-steps. My eyes are wide, my teeth clenched.

Seeing the wolf, the ewe wakes. _If I can only knock him down, and keep him down, without killing him…_

The ewe whispers too quietly.

I duck under the Bokoblin's swung cleaver and rush into him, ramming him with all my weight focused in my right shoulder. The creature falls back, skids across smooth stone.

He's down. I ready my sword.

I don't know what made me look over the blue Bokoblin, into the horde. I see a familiar face. A red-skinned Bokoblin with pale scar lines running across his face and body, his small eyes stretched open with fearfulness, his little paws clasped as if in prayer. The only one in the horde not crying viciously for blood.

I come back to myself. I stop. My blade clatters on the floor.

I feel Ghirahim's glare burning into my skin, but I won't do it. _Please let it be over_ , I beg silently, swaying on my feet. I want out of here. The heat and acrid smell of the collective bodies closes in around me, it mixes with the sharp scent of steel and blood. A cold draft running down from the black throne does little to dispel it.

A clicking snap pierces through the clamor. Daggers appear in the air, point downwards to the blue-skinned Bokoblin.

 _This is what he would have done had I laid down my sword and tried to die…_

My heart stops. I turn to Ghirahim, mouth open but nothing comes out. How can I make him understand? "M-Master, please, I—"

A dagger drops down, sinks into a leg muscle. Another swiftly follows, into the creature's arm. It screeches out in pain.

"Stop! Stop!"

He doesn't. He holds up a hand, the tip of his index finger glows with red magic, and as he turns his wrist the daggers twist, boring into flesh and bone. The screams become louder, from both the Bokoblin and the gathered monsters. The sight of gushing blood sends them into an uproar, and it is not one of protest.

My stomach ties itself into wrenching knots. I want to blast them all away! How? The white light, my aura—how did I do it last time? Uncertainty clutters my head, screeches drown out thought. I don't have time to figure it out!

I fling myself at Ghirahim, clutch onto his outstretched arm. I pull down with all my weight, even lifting my feet and hanging off him. It does nothing. His arm is steel and it doesn't bend. "Please!" I gasp. "I—!" I cut myself off. I can think of nothing that will convince him. I drop from him and out of desperation run to the Bokoblin. I stand over the shrieking creature, arms and legs spread to take any incoming blades.

The monsters around us go quiet. It is a confused quiet; their hisses and murmurs of discontent attest to that. Something tells me they have never seen anything like this before—to take blows for another.

The daggers stop falling.

I cannot describe the glare Ghirahim strikes me with. It is more than burning. If he could set me ablaze in a bout of hellfire, I think that glare would have done it.

"You"—I scramble for something, anything to say—"You said it yourself! I mean, you did it yourself." My mind drudges up the first instance Ghirahim might have ever shown mercy. "You didn't kill Link that first time! You—you said it wouldn't be fair. This!" I throw an arm down to indicate the bleeding Bokoblin. "This isn't fair! This is _sad._ Please just stop, _please_."

The demon lord's glare does not change. It is like an ice that burns. Unfeeling, uncaring, not flickering with remorse for even a moment.

The growls from the perimeters clue me into why. His subordinates are watching. He's given me an order and I'm defying him in front of them all. It cannot look as if I am challenging him and his authority, or I'll get nowhere. Whatever scrap of pride I have left is folded. I fall to my knees, I plead. "Please, Master, please…!"

"Do you honestly think," he says so quietly I can barely hear him, "you are at a level where you can pick and choose?" His eyes rake my bleeding wounds.

With a sinking heart I watch him march to me, can do nothing as he grabs and tosses me aside. I land on my hip, and by the time I'm back to my feet the screeches have turned to pure bestial cries of agony—nothing a human could recognize. Ghirahim plucks one of the daggers from the air and starts cutting strips of skin that was once blue. He's pulling and tearing, flecking red on himself and all that surrounds him, and I—

I do the only merciful thing I can. I snatch up my sword and drive it into the Bokoblin's chest, where his heart would be.

I let go of the hilt and stagger back, leaving the sword sticking out of the creature's body. My eyes, wide and disbelieving, rest on that blade, perversely reminded of the Master Sword jutting from its pedestal.

All has gone still and all is quiet.

The blue Bokoblin isn't screaming anymore.

Ghirahim turns to me in surprise. And then he smiles. A slow smile of satisfied triumph.

And I hate him. In that moment I hate him. So. Much.

" _You_ "—My English comes out on a breathless stutter—" _You sick son of a bitch!_ "

A white gloved palm claps against my cheek. It stays on my face, thumb stroking irritably. It scarcely stings, and I realize he did not follow through with any real force. A glare clashes with his smile. " _I'll forgive you this time_ , _slave_ ," he responds in English, " _considering the circumstances_. _Though, truthfully, I can't imagine why you found this so hard._ "

I open and close my mouth several times before I can speak. " _Forgive me? Forgive_ me?! _You motherfu—_!" My eyes slip to the floor. The blood is everywhere, spreading out from the body, crawling towards me. I stagger away from it.

It is the last thing I see before darkness steals into my vision, the floor rushing to catch me.

* * *

When I wake, it is in bed. For a blissful few seconds I think it was all a nightmare. Until I crack open my eyes. Hope so powerful becomes crushing when I see Ghirahim, sitting on the edge of my bed, the evidence of the blood that had splattered him washed away, told by the sheen of moisture on his skin, its erasure as damning as if it still stained him. He is as untouched snow now, but I can still smell traces of the metallic tang riding off him. He leans over me, one hand planted into the bed at my side, the other stroking my hair. He's smiling that pleased smile.

My throat feels raw from pleas that were screamed, grates like sandpaper as I swallow. A chill washes over me. The various wounds I got tingle under their bandages. Shii and Essil move as shadows at the corner of the room, carrying bottles of make-shift red potion and wrappings. They exit quietly, Essil glancing back with one final look of worry.

"I can't say you did well," Ghirahim says. "I had almost thought you wouldn't pull through, but you did…by the skin of your teeth. It was a start, at the very least."

"Stop touching me," I rasp.

He ignores me. If anything, his fingers thread more strongly through my hair. "I've heard it's painful for some the first time." He hums a short laugh, like he finds even the notion of the thought ridiculous. "Don't fret. It will become easier."

Fear stabs my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut.

His palm cups my cheek. "Shh, darling. I…" In a moment of rarity he looks at a loss for words. "I got carried away, I know. We'll wait until you're fully healed before any more training. You have my word." His smile falls from his face. "Darling…you're shaking."

He adjusts the sheets and tightens them around me. The entire time I can think of nothing more than to slap him away. But I don't move. There are so many things I want to call him. But I don't say a word. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. I wait for him to leave. After an eternity, he does.

I lie in the quiet. It's late; no light streams through the stained glass windows. The candles cover the room in a glowing hush.

In the dead of night I finally allow tears to bubble over and spill. The sobs are strangled; I don't risk it for him to hear. By some act of instinctive mercy my mind blanks on those final moments in the black chamber. I can picture very little. Red on a blade. A sword sticking up from a creature my mind has transfigured to stone to protect itself from the realities of flesh.

I'll be good, I promised. I'll love like He did, like He does.

How am I supposed to do that with a demon breathing down my neck?

I turn over and curl in on myself. It didn't happen, I want to say. But I know it did happen. It was a bad dream, I want to tell myself. But I know it was real.

The black river running through my heart tears at the grassy banks with frothing rage.

Ghirahim won. He forced my hand and I couldn't do a thing about it. The worst part is he'll do it again.

I don't sleep. I lie the whole night shivering, wishing I could just disappear.

At one point in the night, I feel like I do.

The door blasts open, squeaks on its hinges and slams into the wall behind it. The last person— _demon_ —I want to see rushes into the room. He flashes through, a flare of white in the dark, and throws himself at me, wrapping his hand around my neck, squeezing just above the golden collar.

So this is it, I think.

But then his hand stills. It rests there, my heart drumming against his fingers. "Little bird," he whispers roughly. " _Kya_."

Reluctantly I open my eyes. I show no emotion through them.

He shows all emotion through his. Confusion and fear are at the topmost, anger and revulsion following too late to cover the formers.

I can take the tense silence no more. "What," I hiss.

Ghirahim looks me over, eyes darting. "Your aura…"

" _What_ ," I repeat.

He finally catches my hard tone. He glowers. "…It has gone down to nothing. _Nothing_ , do you understand?"

"So what? It's done that befor—"

"No," he says. "Not down to a speck, not like an insect's. I mean it has disappeared. Completely. To _nothingness_."

My blank stare translates my understanding.

"Little fool," he whispers. "Stupid little fool. There's only one type of human with not a spark of aura."

"And what's that?"

His fingers twitch at my pulse, eyes glinting in the candlelight. "A dead one."

* * *

Ghirahim stays seated beside me, his hand remaining at my neck, feeling the steady rhythm of my pulse, until dawn breaks through the window. My aura returns, the barest hints of it, and he leaves me to 'recuperate,' as he said.

"I wouldn't want to lose my favorite servant, now, would I?" He smiles, but I don't miss the nervous twitching of his fingers, or the trace of doubt faltering his expression. He stares at me a moment longer, almost like he's waiting for me to affirm that I'll keeping breathing.

I let the door click shut without responding.

Servant, he says. _Servant…_ But I know what he really means. _Slave_.

He called me slave right before I passed out. He had called me servant when we first met, but that was just a nicety, wasn't it?

I lie in bed like a vegetable. I don't move, and I don't speak, not even to Essil when she brings me food. I let the uncovered dishes sit untouched at my bedside to grow cold and stale. I sleep. I wake. I force myself to sleep again. In sleep I dream. Bits and pieces of different images and happenings show themselves behind my closed eyes. Some are of things I know will happen, others are impossible, and then there are those in between blurring the lines and blending them all together. Until impossible and possible are one and the same.

A boy clad in green enters a watery temple. Rocks fall from the sky. A girl in white screams in agony. A creature of black metal laughs manically.

The clouds sail backwards through time.

Castles are torn apart, structural stones flying like splintered glass, and left to rot, overtaken by the moss and vines of centuries.

The clouds again drift in reverse.

Dark creatures crawl up from a crack in the earth, chase after humanoid figures of gentle light. They scream, they flee. The dark creatures scorch the earth black and taint the waters red as they pass. Of those light figures that were caught—so many, tripping, stumbling, or being outrun—had their lights extinguished like candles doused under water. They went out, nonexistent, as if they had never been at all. Screaming cut short. The sight boils anger deep in my gut. Suddenly I am there, weapon in hand. It is long and made of steel, and though it is not sharp, it is deadlier than all their swords. Its battle cry is the shout of thunder, its bite of lightning. It is not a weapon of their realm. I cradle it in a hold I know well, stare down its metallic length.

From the corner of my eye I see the woman—not the girl—in white.

Hylia is as tall as she is imperious, golden hair falling down to her ankles. She watches me afar. When our eyes meet, she nods, lifting an elegant finger towards the creatures of the dark.

I was going to do it anyway. My hand squeezes around my weapon, and it rends the air with thunder. The lead it shoots scatters, punches deep into multiple dark creatures at once. When their bodies hit the ground they turn to stone. Black clouds swirl violently in the sky. The air is silent and oddly still, ruptured only by the _booms_ of the Knowing Realm's weapon.

Hylia watches with serene impassiveness, while I grow colder and sicker at the core of me. _It's fine_ , I tell myself. _Sometimes you have no choice._

Then he is there, parting the throng of darkness and stone through its middle. I stare, shocked, into those white eyes, pupilless, and glowing bright as the diamond shapes etched into his dark skin. The _clink_ of his metallic footsteps grow louder the closer he comes.

The woman in white somehow recaptures my attention without moving. She lifts her regal robed arm, points. I follow her gesture, stare once more into the white eyes of…him.

With a strange sort of dissociation, I raise my weapon, take aim. Hesitation wrenches to an abrupt end when an image of a sword jutting from a skinned creature's body rips through my head. I squeeze the trigger. The _clink_ of his steps is drowned by thunder and lead. The bits of metal strike him, flash in sparks, keen in ricochets. He keeps walking; I keep firing. A steady stream: footsteps and thunder blast. It does not stop until he is but an arm's length away, towering five heads above me. The barrel of my weapon points at his chest.

Then there is silence, so profound everything seems to have stopped in time. I turn my head to Hylia. Her hair flows about her, and her light shines bright. She nods to me. I look back to Ghirahim in time to see him raise his fists and, in disbelief, I watch as he pries his fingers into the metal diamond situated on his chest. He wretches it open, bit by bit, pieces of him cracking and fissuring at the area. A red diamond is revealed to me, pulsing and glowing with heat.

I look to Hylia one more time.

She looks to my weapon, then to the red diamond in Ghirahim's chest. She inclines her head.

I raise my weapon and aim at the core he has so foolishly bared to me. When I pull the trigger everything shatters, and the scene, with its black sky and rotted earth, falls away.

White static. It crackles and buzzes—is all I can see or hear or feel crawling all over me.

The next I open my watery eyes, it is to the warm wood of an aisle cut between rows and rows of wooden pews. I walk slowly, trance-like, veer off to one of those pews, pull a thick book from a rack built into the back of the bench. I open it. The words blur and jumble on the white page, but I know them. Half-remembered, dulled by time and distance, but known.

I come out of the dream lying on a wet pillow, scalding tears still leaking. Out of all the pages in that book, out of all the words on that page… _Slaves, be good to your non-Christian masters, be kind to them and respect them, so that through you they might see the love of Christ._ So clearly I see the words. So loudly it thrums in my head. It can't be a coincidence.

Sometimes you have no choice, and sometimes...

I never thought I'd prefer not to have one, but in this instance…

I turn away from it. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to be told to be kind to one who is so cruel. But the words stay in my head like a nail to a board. The golden collar fastened round my neck feels heavy suddenly. Its smooth metal finish burns at my throat.

I slam my eyes shut, barricade the tears inside. No. No, no, no.

The verse from a Holy Book I had long forgotten, or thought I had forgotten, remains. Gently urging. Softly guiding. But not forcing me. _He_ would never force me, unlike my earthly master.

I grip the collar around my neck, pull. It won't come loose.

 _Never have I heard Your voice_ ¸ I say in bitter prayer. _Never have I seen Your face. Where are You? I can't see. I can't hear. Why didn't You bring me home? Why have I been left here? I have the faith of not even a mustard seed—that tiny, miniscule thing—that's all I have to know You're there._

Sometimes it isn't enough.

Sometimes it's just too much.

 _No one answers…_

I could scream my throat bloody and I wouldn't hear an answer from Him. I've already done it. Out on the farthest edges of that world in the sky, in the depths of night and on an isolated island where only the stars and my Loftwing could hear.

 _I can't hear. I can't see. What choice do I have?_

Slamming my eyes shut, I see Hylia. Pointing. Nodding her head. Mouthing words I cannot hear. Yet I know what she wants.

And I know what my God would want.

What do I want?

My panicked breaths come shorter and shorter, heart stabbing into its cage of bones. Black skirts the edges of my eyes, whispers out the dim of candles.

 _I don't know…_

I fall back into my dreams. It takes up where I left, standing before Ghirahim, his chest open and bared to me, his oddly stoic face one of resignation.

Hylia flares her golden light, points to his core and wordlessly nods her order.

I look down the shotgun barrel. I cannot deny the part of me that wants so badly to open fire, to make him feel the pain he's caused so many others. My fingers curl around the trigger, weapon aimed.

And then I lower it.

Hylia's impassive expression turns to one of troubled consternation. She tries again, motions, forms soundless words with her mouth.

I hold her stare and shake my head, the weapon gripped but hanging limp at my side.

Neither can I deny the part of me that does not want to hurt. For once, it is louder.

The dream blares out in white.

 _These dreams can't be normal…or maybe I'm just crazy._

Fine, I say upon waking. Though I can't see how it'll do a damn bit of good, especially on someone like Ghirahim, I'll do it.

Because it was done for me.

I know humans of the Knowing Realm have a sin nature. I've seen it, I've felt it. The Hylians don't have it. Not yet, anyway. Not a single prison stands on Skyloft, or on any of its neighboring islands. There are disagreements, sure. There are skirmishes. But nothing like I've known. Prisons dot every country in the Knowing Realm. Pain, and greed, and wrath splinter every heart. And yet He reached out to that broken world. He reached out, had that hand struck back with a nail, but still He reached. Knowing that His children could slap His hand away and carelessly jump off into the dark below.

 _If I had been the only person on Earth… If there had only been a sliver of a chance I'd take Your offered hand… You would have gone through it all anyway, just for that little bit of chance…_

How can I not do the same?

Fine! I toss in bed, declaration not spoken aloud. Fine! It won't do a bit of good, but I'll do it, for that next to nonexistent chance, for the hope that something good will come of it. I'll obey. Because I choose to. But I can only obey so far. If he wants me to kill again, we're going to have some problems.

I scoff. I don't think that's something my God would want obeyed anyway.

Respect I can do, I suppose. I'll respect Ghirahim enough not to claw his eyes out the next time I see him.

Yet I can't help but think: Is he any more of a demon than the worst people of the Knowing Realm? In this world so far and separate from the one I knew, what constitutes a demon? If there's any chance he'll see the light…

I'll do my best to show him.

But I won't go down with him.

I'll show him, but just like those in the Knowing Realm, it's his choice to make. I can't make it for him.

My thoughts race through the night, down a highway littered with speeding lights.

And I can't help but shudder when I find, deep inside me, I truly don't want that scary bastard to die…despite all he's done to deserve it.

* * *

Morning's light comes. I drag myself out of bed, exhausted from vivid dreams and soul searching of the night. I pad to the door and crack it open, peeking out. Drawing in a breath, I prepare myself.

"Darling," Ghirahim says when he sees me walking down the hall. His voice sounds scratchy. "You're up. Are you…?"

I wait, I listen.

He doesn't finish. He bites his lip, and there's something odd flashing behind his shadowed gaze. "I was…" He trails off again. Then, with a grin that sweeps away any trace of uncertainty, he stands in a flourish and beckons me closer. "Now that you're up, it's the perfect time! You wanted to see the library, didn't you? Come, come! I have a surprise for you there as well."

He takes me down beige halls and past glimmering glass. We walk in silence for most of the way, until he grabs my bandaged hand and inspects it.

"Healing nicely, I hope?"

I say nothing.

"It was for your own good." He speaks in light conversational tones. "One day you will be able to attest to that." His voice lowers to solemnity. "You will be alive to do so."

We walk in silence after that. The halls stretch on and on, mapping like a maze in my head. I lose hope of keeping details for self-navigation. After many twists and turns we end up in a tunnel-like hall bearing no windows or ornaments. At the end is a plain wooden wall—or so I assume until Ghirahim pushes on it and reveals it to be a hidden door. To my surprise we come out of a bookcase; it slides back into place and clicks shut after we've passed through.

Ghirahim turns to me and smiles. "Welcome to the library."

My wide eyes drift up. Walls and walls—all lined with books, some faded and ancient, some vibrant and newer—climb into the massive vaulted ceiling. Columns bearing multiple floors scale those walls, their arches conjoining in the center ceiling where a gargantuan round skylight sits, piercing the room with fractal golden light through its pleated glass.

"I've…" I take it all in. "I don't think I've seen so many in one place. Not even in the Knowing Realm."

His smile broadens. "You can read all you like—but you'll find not many are in the human languages. You forgot your parchment. Ah, but I'm forgetting your surprise. It's over by those lounges."

He points me to a cluster to evergreen sofas, the warm wood frames and upholstery glistening in spades of sunlight. I go with trepidatious feet, my eyes darting around for any sort of trap or trick. But all I see, once I get closer, is a Bokoblin with scarred, red skin standing behind one of the sofas. His hands are clasped together, his face is drained of color, and he is hunched, looking for all the world at his feet, as if he could melt through the floor if he stares long enough.

"B-Bob," I say with shaking voice.

His head rises at the sound. His eyes enlarge on me, and then he is signing one word over and over. " _Sorry. Sorry. Sorry._ "

When I realize what he's saying my heart clenches. I go to him, hands up and signing. " _OK, B. Yes. OK. Thank you, OK._ "

Bob calms, but still swivels his fist over his heart. _Sorry_.

I don't know what he's sorry for. For me, and for what I had to go though, or if he is simply afraid he was brought here to meet a similar fate as the blue Bokoblin. My heart quickens at the thought. I look around for Ghirahim. I find him high above us, straddling the bannister of the second to top floor, his back set against a bulk of column. A heavy tome lies spread in his lap, his free leg swinging slowly to and fro. He's not paying a bit of attention to the tome. He watches me, the intent look in his eyes a complete contrast to his playfully swinging foot.

I tear my gaze away from him.

I sit down with Bob and go over more signs with him. Book. Table. Seat. It calms him down and gives him—both of us—something else to think about. Something that isn't horrible or frightening.

Even so, I keep Ghirahim's position in the back of my mind. He hasn't moved at all. I catch him staring still, watching as I teach Bob sign. Glints of curiosity and longing show through the stone in his eyes. He wants something, something only I can give him but for the life of me I can't think what.

He does not glare. There is no malicious quirk of his lip. No hatred on a face so accustomed to it. He watches in what almost seems like apprehension.

I don't understand.

I lower my head and remember pieces of a night my mind has blocked from me.

The Bokoblin laid bleeding before me. He had not been allowed to fatally wound me.

 _You will not bleed again._

In the black chamber I had squeezed my eyes shut and lowered my blade. Here, in the now, I squeeze shut my eyes and lower my hands.

 _By no one. Except me._

I look up to where the demon is seated high on the balustrades. _What kind of twisted affection were you trying to show me? Or was it affection at all?_

Its possibility scares me more than his cruel ambition ever could. No, I can't accept it. It's a trick. It always has to be a trick. He's pretending. He's trying to fool me. A snake trying to lure me in a hypnotic trance of compliance.

Whatever love I may have been developing astray from the straight and narrow commandment of 'Love Thy Enemy' drops and settles into the bottom of my heart like a cold pit. There it stays, as a dead and lifeless weight. A reminder of what I can never allow myself to fall into.

 _You are my enemy, but I will try to offer you a way to keep your life, but should you choose death…_

I hold his unblinking stare with one of my own. I've made my choice.

All that's left is for him to make his.

* * *

It's a day later when Essil almost gets impaled, for the simple mistake of brewing the wrong tea. She ducked and slammed into the wall in avoidance, but still a chip of webbing was sliced from the top of her head.

Fear trickles down my spine like a never-ending stream. A demon with shifting emotions of rage and despair unleashes violence on those around him. I'm no longer the only one involved and, like that blue Bokoblin, others will fall given enough time. I know it, know with a constant certainty.

And by that knowledge I know I must tell him. To give him something to focus on. To put purpose and direction back in his stride. To give route to a blade so its point doesn't aim at us.

I think and think on it, pondering for another way, grasping for a little more time. I can only hope Link has gotten ahead.

 _But maybe, just maybe…there is another way after all…_

After pacing and wringing my hands, I come to my decision. I can't stall here anymore. The sake of others is what finally tips the scales.

And so, in the dead of night, while the demon lies in hopelessness filled with a thousand pages, I stumble out to him, stuttering of a vision of twin Gates.

* * *

His eyes opened impossibly wide and his lips spread in a smile of genuine joy. He picked me up by the arms and spun until I was dizzy. The reaction was so…human…for a split second I forgot he wasn't. I gaped at him, all thoughts coming to a halt.

 _What choice did your creator give you? Had you no choice but to be what you are?_

And then I wondered, not for the first time: _Who made you?_

Afterwards he bombarded me with questions desperate for insights. How many did you say? Where? What exactly did you see?

I told him what I had rehearsed in my head prior: A vision of the Gate of Time, spinning, faster and faster, until it lit up and split into two. One was beheld with a yellow light shining behind it, the other in a bed of green.

He collapsed in a sofa chair I swear wasn't there before, staring off at the far wall.

"What does it mean?" he now asks, brow drawn, eyes searching as if through me.

"Well, one Gate was in green and one was in yellow." I make an unsure face and hold up my hands like weighing scales. "Sand is yellow. And the first Gate was in the desert, so it could stand to reason the green could be…" I press my lips together before taking an unsure, squeaky 'guess'. "…grassland…?"

 _I can buy time, I can still buy time…_

"How utterly rudimentary," he says dryly. "How stupidly…" His eyes open wider, a light of misfit realization growing. "…feasible." He springs up from his laid back position, pulling at scrolls and spreading down maps.

He wants to narrow down the search field, wants to get to his goal as quickly and as unfettered as he can.

It doesn't go as he hopes.

Hours later he's lying on the lounge, once again bemoaning his luck. Books and scrolls lined with maps and ancient documents are scattered all around. He's been through them all, striped each and every line of each and every page. What he finds does not amount to much. Nothing, he says. _It might as well be nothing!_ With an entire world to scour, he has found next to nothing that would lessen the search, nothing that could help his master be free sooner rather than later. But there is hope now that he knows of the second Gate.

That doesn't stop the dramatics.

He's thrown himself on the sofa like a woman fainted. He stretches and moans, moans and stretches.

I'm flipping through an antediluvian geographical tome I can barely read, hoping—or acting as I hope—something will jump off the page at me. I may be his slave, I may even…not…entirely…hate him. And he may win most of the time. But I'm still one step ahead.

 _I'll always be one step ahead. And you'll never know it._

At the behest of another moan, I toss Ghirahim a side-long glance. He's posing now like he's having a portrait painted, his arm curled above his head, playing with his hair. He's eyeing me.

I blink at him. And then I return my attention to the book.

With a sharp frown, he picks up a book and chucks it at me. It sails through the air and audibly smacks off my face.

"What was that for?!" I hold my nose, speaking nasally.

"I've already looked in that book, you nitwit."

"Well, I'm looking again!"

"You can't even read it." He shifts his hips and eyes me further. "Come here…comfort me."

Panic revs my heart into overdrive. I stop breathing. _No. No, I…not after…_

"Kya." There is no question in his tone—only demand.

Steadily I rise from my seat, the dream I had, and the realization that it brought, replaying in my head. I walk to him with displaced serenity. Whatever he has planned, whatever it is he wants from me…it can't be worse than what was already done, right?

He grabs me and pulls me on top of him.

His chest hits my cheek like a rock. I lie there, sprawled, feeling every crest of muscle beneath me.

"To think you'd become more valuable than all of these books combined." He seems to muse more to himself rather than me.

I lift my head, knitting my brow. Draining lucidity emboldens me. "Was that supposed to be a compliment? Thanks. I'm an object worth more than these other objects."

Suddenly his hand comes to the back of my head, pushing me down to his chest. "An object," he says, voice quiet and rough, "does not bleed the way you bled."

I tremble, frozen, petrified. I do not know what to make of what he just said. He's talking of my shoulder, of the hit I took for him. Yet the recent cuts, though now dwindled to nothing more than scratches thanks to improved red potion, still question why.

His grip loosens. "…Did I hurt you?" His fingers trail through my hair, and down the ridges of my sutured shoulder. "At times I forget how fragile you really are. So unlike myself. Forgive me."

 _You're more fragile than you think,_ is my first thought. But then I gape at him. What did he just…? Forgive me? Like he's actually sorry? Am I supposed to believe it? And why apologize for something so insignificant after he…

He's watching me, intently, like he did in the library.

 _What are you really sorry for…?_

Confused and frightened, I don't know what to say, so I settle for a lamely squeaked, "Okay."

 _It's not okay. It's really not._

I lay my head back down. I can't look him in the eye anymore tonight.

 _But I can't kill you. And I don't want you to die._

We lay there like that, my cheek resting on his steadily rising and falling chest, his hand stroking up and down my back. It unnerves me, this closeness, this…strange intimacy that shouldn't be happening, but is.

I squirm, unable to bear the oddness any longer. "Um, we—we have a Gate to find."

At first he does not respond, and the silence drags until I expect he won't. But then, a whispered, "Just a few minutes..." He sounds so tired when he says it.

I don't deny him the rest. I bear his ministrations, no matter how…strange. After all, why should I be in a hurry to find a Time Gate I technically don't want to find? Not yet, anyway. Not yet. I can buy us a little more time.

The seconds pass by quietly, the only sounds coming from the softly ticking clock, the occasional pop and crackle from the hearth, and the slow, rhythmic breaths from the demon lord.

"Little bird," he whispers on a weary breath, his eyes closed, "sing for me."

I duck my head and attempt to curl inward. Straining my high-pitched voice isn't what I want to do, but I don't deny him. I pass the words of _Come Thou Fount_ through my lips as gently as I can, to keep him soothed. He's learned enough English—faster than any human could learn—to know most of what I'm saying. To my surprise, he doesn't stop me or ask me to sing something else. He listens quietly, with the visage of one who is finally falling asleep.

And sleep he does. Or I think he does. I can't trust a thing about him. I lie there, not daring to move or else 'wake' him, listening to the exchange of air to and from his chest. Faintly, so faint I think I imagine it, flutters a tiny pulse, flickering in and out just beneath my ear, deep down inside him. It cannot be a heartbeat, because he has no heart. What does a being of metal and magic need with one of those? I'm tired, and I imagine. It is gone when I try to concentrate on it. Maybe it was just my heart echoing through him.

Tomorrow will dawn a new day. A day of exploration.

 _I've made my choice._

I'll take him along on this journey then. I'll pitter after him, not leading, but most definitely directing. I'll show him a winding trail that leads exactly to where he wants to go, that takes him to what he wants most of all. Something that he's meant to get to eventually.

 _…And, despite what you've done, despite what you are, I can only hope and pray that when you go through it you don't choose to find death on the other side…_

The Gate.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter expounds the madness that is Kya's motives and delves into the endless possibilities of Ghirahim's** **—and how he may be having trouble with them.**

 **I hope no one was expecting Ghirahim to turn into something...less than evil...overnight. Although, if you look closely...  
**

 **Thank you for reading. As always, feedback is most appreciated.  
**


	23. open world

**A/N: Hold the door! I've got another 8,000+ word chapter. And it has only been a little over a week. I told you I surprise sometimes. ^_^'  
**

 **Thank you** **Bluebadger (** Yay for Bob! **),** **Mokki Takashi,** **Branded Lunacy,** **Meta-Akira,** **MayBeADragon12,** **Moon ninja Luna,** **starfish (** He really is. We'll see how Kya fares **),** **Ambiguous Cake,** **MoonlightDovakiin,** **Pineapple (** Thank you! **), and** **auroraskyewalker (** I'm very flattered you created an account for this. I hope you will like the upcoming chapters too! **) for your feedback last chapter!  
**

* * *

 **Chapter 23**

Being circled like a slab of meat on display is one of the more uncomfortable experiences I've felt. I stand stiff, struggling not to fidget. Ghirahim paces the circle, his narrowed gaze raking me up and down. He pauses to tug experimentally on a flowing sleeve, traces a finger along V-neck borders, both front and back. The chill of his fingertip sends shivers through my skin. I fight not to let it show, not the shivers or the hitch in my breath when he takes to fingering my collarbone instead of the new dress. A knowing little smirk twitches his mouth and he moves on to smooth his palms over the diamond cut-outs positioned in the sleeve of each shoulder.

"Well, it fits, at least. How do you like it?"

I stare up at him widely, surprised he'd ask my opinion. My mouth stays in a straight, unyielding line. What am I supposed to tell him? That I hate it? That I love it? That, in truth, I don't even know how to feel about it? The fabric feels like water against my skin it's so soft. The sleek sleeves are fitted to my elbows, where they then drape down in a loose ruffle—a flounce sleeve, I think it's called. The handkerchief skirt tickles at my knees as I shift my feet, and the falling, slightly flared fabric reminds me of the 'fangs' of Ghirahim's cape, except that mine are ruffled and uneven.

Ghirahim watches me, his hands still resting on the round swells of my shoulders, covering the rhombus shaped cut-outs with his palms. I'm surprised those are the only cut-outs, considering his own outfit. The V-neck isn't too deep either, although I'm sure if I had more of a bust I'd be singing a different tune. As it is, I find myself struggling on how to thank him for this allowed modesty.

 _Hah. He would have had to drag me out by the heels if he hadn't allowed it._

"It's—it's…" I glance over into the full length mirror. It's like nothing I've ever seen. The only reason I know what to call the unique sleeves and skirt is because of my mother. Though the industry she worked in was cosmetics, she dabbled in fashion. She once promised to make me a dress, long ago, and as I stand here now, I… I think of this dress as one she could have made me. If she had ever found the time.

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow it down, mask it with a hastily asked, "You made this?"

Ghirahim lifts his brows, the annoyance at having his question dodged glinting in the dark of his eyes. "I _had_ it made; I didn't make it, you silly twit."

"Who made it?"

He waves the question away impatiently. "Never mind that. You didn't answer me. Do you like it?"

I glance between him and the mirror. "It's—Beautiful."

Tension that I hadn't noticed eases from his shoulders and his smile melts from sharp to genuine.

Then I blurt out, "First grass stain I get on this and you're gonna kill me." A complaint, an accusation, all rolled into one.

His eyes widen in shock. The expression quickly falls away, and he throws his head back in a burst of laughter. "You silly little bird! Why do you think it took so long? Not only was it specially made, I put several incantations on it. It won't stain, or tear. It will keep you warm, or cool, depending on what you need. Now, be polite and say _thank you_."

I throw myself into him before my mind can comprehend my movement. Only after my arms have latched around his waist does my brain catch up, asking, _What are you doing?_

Ghirahim's breath comes out in an amused puff. His arms circle me, pull me closer, and he bends to rest his nose on the crown of my head. "Mmhm, such manners. But… Yes, this will suffice."

Early morning light breaks free from the clouds and hits off the mirror, pricks me in the eye. I see us standing there in the reflection of my room, the pale light sparkling just over our heads, and it almost looks something out of a fairytale. But the glinting of the collar fastened around my neck, though gold and red jeweled, reminds me of the truth. I'm a slave in a suddenly generous master's embrace. The beautiful dress, with its tapering waistline and silken crimson belt with a golden rhombus clip—an inversion of the colors at my throat—cannot be allowed to delude me.

I loosen my arms, hoping the demon will follow suit.

He does. He holds me at arm's length, again giving me a shrewd once-over. "The fabric is made from a special Skulltula silk. It will wear like armor." He circles to my back, dragging a finger down the V. "I thought I told them to close this," he hisses, his knuckles brushing against the exposed curve of the sutured wound on my back.

Sensing an outburst, I draw his attention to my sleeves. "Shouldn't these be, um, shorter? I mean, the flowy part?"

"Nonsense. They're the perfect length. They only come to your wrists, correct? Yes. As long as they don't obscure your hands, they're fine." He smiles puckishly. "After all, we wouldn't want you without your wings, now, would we?"

I scrunch my brow, just then noticing the tiny feathers embroidered on the hem of the draping silks. "…Do you think maybe you're taking this 'bird' thing a little too far?"

His hand grazes at my head in a halfhearted slap, mussing my already ratty hair in the process. "Oh, be quiet. It pleases me. Now, something else is wrong about this…"

I suppress a groan. I don't want to stand here all day while he picks his own design apart.

Suddenly he snaps his fingers and in his grasp appears a golden diamond-shaped clip much like the one at my waist. He moves it towards my hair, but then stops, a frown snarling his features. "What have I told you…" he growls lowly.

I back up from him. "What?"

He marches to the vanity and snatches up the silver backed brush.

"Uh…" My eyes snap wide. "Oh, uh—w-wait, I can…!"

"I gave you your chance!"

I shriek as the brush rips through my hair in vigorous strokes. _But you didn't_ , I think. _You woke me up at the ass-crack of dawn to put me in a dress!_

"Hold still!" He yanks the loose strands back from my face and fastens them with the clip at the base of my head. "There. Some semblance of order. Now let me look at you... I suppose that will do. Come along then. We have a lot of ground to cover."

I blink back the stinging tears. "Yep," I rasp, "great. Okay. Yes, Master," I add at his withering look.

"It was just a hair brushing, blasted gods knew you needed it. Stop acting as if I've whipped you. I could whip you, you know." He backs out the doorway, a smirk pulling at his snowy lips, his voice turning dark. "I could make you like it."

"Let's go find that Gate, Master!" I say, suddenly gung-ho.

Ghirahim rolls his eyes and lets out a soft laugh. He disappears behind the doorway.

Before following him I look back at the mirror one last time. I'm still a dull feathered hen, only this time I'm wrapped in light blue.

A thought forms that makes me smile wryly.

 _I wonder how Zelda and Ghirahim would react if they knew they put me in exactly the same color dress._

* * *

The grass tickling my ankles whispers with the wind riding across its vast expanse. It sails over the glades, grass bending like waves on water, the sunlight shimmering off reflective blades so bright I must squint against it. The rolling hills go on and on, right into the clear blue expanse of sky, wherein the horizon gives in to shadowed valleys and silhouetted mountains.

My breath becomes caught in my throat; my heart flutters like impatient hooves, begging the leash to snap so they may run. I start forward, relishing the way the grass scrunches beneath my silver slippers. The slippers—or whatever they are, these sleek things covering my feet—are far from the clunkiness of my boots. They let me feel every nuance of the earth, every skittle of dirt and wisp of grass, yet when I step on a small but particularly jagged rock, it does not hurt me, and I wonder if they've been enchanted too.

My pace quickens and the breeze pushes against me, its crisp touch leaving trails of goosebumps along my exposed skin and its fresh scent invigorating exploration's desire. I don't know where I go. To the mountains, their majesty stretching high into the sky; to the valleys lying low and mellow, splotched with shade and sun; or the somewhere beyond? _Anywhere!_ my heart sings. _We can go anywhere!_

Laughter follows me, and soon after an arm of smoothly muscled strength cuffs my waist. Air leaves my lungs in a startled _woosh_.

"As adorable as it is to see you frolicking, we'll never get where we're going if we go at your pace." Ghirahim comes up beside me and lifts me like I'm no more than a feather.

Instinctively my legs wrap around his hips. Unlike when the expanse we crossed was sand, the closeness does not bother me; my attention remains rapt on the outstretched world before us. I lean my torso out from him, looking left, looking right, looking everywhere I can. Finally there is more to see than stone walls. Finally there is more to see than endless clouds. Finally there is more to see than the designated spots only my 'visions' have afforded me.

"So enraptured," Ghirahim murmurs with amusement. "Do you like the surface, darling?"

"It's been so long since…since I've been in a wide open world," I respond breathlessly, still engrossed with where to go, what to see, not blinking for fear it should all disappear.

Ghirahim goes silent, and I feel more than see his burrowing stare.

I turn my head to him. "What?" I ask innocently, the dread and realization of what I've implied sinking in only after. _It's been so long since I've been in a wide open world… I've lived and breathed in one before…_

His dark eyes roam my face, digging for answers buried deep.

I meet his stare, hoping he can't feel the stampede of my heartbeat. I keep my expression carefully blank, will it to seem unknowing.

The intensity of his probing eyes lessens slowly, from piercing demand, to gentle contemplation, until finally he relaxes and a smile curves his lips. "It's nothing, my darling."

I exhale softly, steadily, so as not to give away relief as its cause.

But the sweetness of his tone belied the mischievous tilt of his brow. While the hand at the small of my back continues to hold me steady, his other snakes into my hair and pulls me close. His mouth brushes my ear. "You will have to tell me sometime, Kya. Today, tomorrow, I don't care which, but you _will_ tell me."

My breath hitches.

His laugh is low and indulging. He kisses my cheek, a quick touch of soft lips. Not a moment later he teleports us off, fractal diamond panes flashing in our wake.

We travel much the same way we did in the desert of Lanayru, only now he is kinder and less impatient. I wonder what's changed. He allows me to roam at ease among old groves and their large and gnarled roots, to circle round green mounds of clover and blossom, and poke my nose in small stalagmite caves and crevices. It's to be more thorough, I reason. It's a wider search and we're trying to overcome an impasse rather than prevent one. Time, for now, isn't our enemy.

I ignore the pang of my heart where the clinch of purposeful deception squeezes—stronger than ever. I know exactly where the second Gate of Time is. I could take him directly to it if I wanted to. But I'll stall, of course. I'll take as much time as I can get away with. I'll lie and beguile as much as I have to, not just for my sake. For all of us. For Link, for Zelda, for everyone in Skyloft, and for…

… _A great obsidian blade, its size massive, its serrated edges viscous fangs, shatters into metallic dust…slips right through the fingers of his master…._

I throw a glance in Ghirahim's direction. I swallow the strange lump that's mysteriously formed in my throat. _For everyone's sake._

He is never far from me. Out of sight, never out of mind. He is there when I look for him no matter how many turns or bends I cross. Softly he treads, watching after me with distracted attentiveness, his mind traveling faster than my feet ever could. When an area yields fruitless, when nothing I see triggers neither recognition nor visions, he takes me once more into his arms and whisks us away to another place kindled in his memory.

"This moor is where the goddess intermingled with her mortals," he says in regards to an expansive grassy hill littered with odd-shaped rocks.

On closer inspection I see they are not rocks, but ruins.

I stumble over the remains of an ancient castle, its foundation splintered and sunken in the reeds, and catch myself on the crumbled husk of a watchtower, barely recognizable save for the lines of cut stones still standing precariously, cemented by years' worth of grime and overgrowth. My palm traces over the rough yet spongey green lichen dotting the granite. A disembodied archway stands not far, covered in creeping vines. The rest of the castle has fallen away; the stones, some small and cracked, others large but still with a cut edge, though weathered by time, attesting to their man-utilized origin, are scattered among the grasses and weeds of the moor.

"What…happened?" I ask to no one in particular, looking up the skeleton of the watchtower as if it will tell me.

There were people here. Lichen crawling upon rocks of old, ruins of castles long left to rot. Whose castles were they? Where did they go?

A raven perched on the highest stone of the ruins startles with a squawk before taking off for the sky in a flurry of feathers. I watch it until it is a speck in the clouds. I understand its fright when Ghirahim comes wandering out of the ruined archway, fingers trailing over the stone, across deep scratches left from long ago—from what I don't know. His eyes have a far-off look to them, like he's remembering something fondly. A cruel smile curves his mouth.

 _A dream of dark creatures crawling from deep within the earth… Of castles torn apart and left to rot... Candle flames in the shape of humans, running, caught, snuffed out…_

And suddenly I don't want to ask. Or to know.

We finish our scouting and move on.

I look to the new direction's horizon. Stacked boulders so large in the distance, and so strangely shaped, look like stone giants reaching heavenward. I squint my eyes at them and tilt my head. Those can't be natural.

Ghirahim cuffs the back of my head as he passes by, mussing the brown hair he had so adamantly tamed. "We're not out here for sight-seeing, Kya. Stop staring off and focus on what's in front of you."

I scowl at his back, but follow obediently. We walk and walk, and soon the moor alters from smooth grassland to rocky plains. The clouds roll in and so do the mists. Or am I blind to the way the fog seems to start where the large odd-looking boulder plateaus begin? I keep my eyes peeled, and to my secret shame I stay right on Ghirahim's heels. I don't why suspicion crawls through my nerves; Ghirahim doesn't seem bothered.

I think I hear a sound somewhere to my left. My imagination, probably. Regardless my hand creeps to the dagger hanging from my red belt. As my fingers curl around the dark green hilt, I grimace, recalling what lead me to taking it.

Before we left for our journey, Ghirahim presented me with the very sword I used to slay the blue Bokoblin. After recovering from shock, I promptly refused it. He quickly became indignant. I tensed up, fearing an outlash.

"Well, what do you want me to do with it?" I fired off.

"Use it," he hissed like I was the most stupid creature for even asking. "I'm not going to let you out into the world with no weapon."

I bit off a retort that he was weapon enough, wrestled down the desire to raise my hackles and fight. It would do no good; he would win with sheer force… But only if I fought by his rules. No. I remembered the dream I had. Respect and be kind.

"I…" I swallowed my vengeful tone. "Master… Can I have the dagger instead? The one I chose before…?"

He regarded me sharply. "Why not the sword?"

"I just prefer the dagger. It was…quicker."

He stared at me long and hard. I could tell he wanted to push me, but something warred in his eyes. "…I suppose just this once. You will never be far from me, after all."

He relented, but not before giving me a lecture on range. _You'll have to move quickly_ , he said, _to get within reach and out again before you're struck._ And then he handed me the dagger. I took it reverently. Hardly able to believe I'd won. A strange feeling overcame me then.

 _I shouldn't have hugged him_ , I think in the present. Twice in one day. I can still feel the little tremor that went through him after I slipped my arms around his slender waist, fingers pressing into the firm muscles of his back, holding tight as I could. His arms followed suit with me, coming around my shoulders. That tremor… That smile of his when I pulled away… His whispered phrase…

 _My darling…_

"Be careful," Ghirahim suddenly speaks, just as I stub my foot on a rocky outcrop. He spares the crinkle of rock, and my foot, not a second's glance, and I'd be offended if the silver slipper hadn't absorbed the impact. "The mists permeating these parts are not temporary and they have been known to turn travelers around. Despite the open ground it is easy to get lost."

I glance around. The mist has thickened the deeper we've gone. "This is weird," I say. "It's like the Lost Woods but….with rocks."

Ghirahim raises a brow. "There are only sparse little trees in this place, few and far between. Though, yes, this area is called the Lost Plateaus. What do you know?"

"Just that there are woods somewhere filled with mist that people get lost in…called the _Lost Woods_ …" I stress the words, look around in wonder.

"I know of no such place."

"It must…not be yet," I reply dazedly. Has it not come to fruition? Am I walking the precursor ground that will one day grow to be the woods of legend? _Yes_ , I think to myself, and somehow I suddenly know it for a fact. _This is the Era of the Sky—millennia separate us from the Hero of Time, and from the heroes that will follow him._ The realization sets a lonely feeling of smallness deep in my bones. I'm nothing but a dot on the time scheme.

And then I look to Ghirahim, watching me with narrowed eyes, standing like any human would, but tall with a pride befitting one of much more grandeur, skin stretched smooth over an iron frame. He'll never wrinkle. He is like the rocks. He was here long before me, and will be walking and breathing long after I fade.

Tch. Not that I know what it's like to reach old age.

"Kya." His hand slips onto my shoulder. "We must keep going."

I wonder if it was a gesture of impatience or comfort.

We go deeper, the fog growing ever thicker, until I am completely reliant on Ghirahim to see what's ahead. Sometimes a wind blows, thins the covering enough to show nothing but rocky terrain and rough grasses.

We're on a flat stretch when the ground rumbles beneath the creeping mists, gentle at first, but then grating with unmistakable consistency.

"Uh…" I start, feeling the tremors tingle up my legs. "Earthquake?"

"Stay close," Ghirahim interjects sharply, sights narrowed into the mists.

I clam up, my fingernails pressing crescents into my palms. I do as he says, matching his soft steps with my own. Whereas he walks with confidence partnered with caution, I walk with false bravado tittering to nervous flight.

The ground goes quiet, but an ominous air remains.

"Are you sure we'll find anything here?"

"I'm not 'sure' of anything. Your vision did not gift us with precision, now did it? So we are left to poke around in the dark." His irritated voice continues in low volume. "The ghost of the goddess's presence is our best bet. Ancient reports from the era of the Great War alluded to this place and to a temple the goddess had meant to construct. Perhaps she left something else. Keep your eyes open, and tell me if anything pops out at you."

 _Oh yeah, I'll tell you. With a scream._ I mull over his words, dart my eyes around, and shiver. "Why would she want to build anything here? It's creepy." My foot slips on a loose piece of earth, sends tiny bits of dirt and pebble skittering down the wet slope.

"Be silent!" Ghirahim turns and hisses. "To deter fools like you from finding anything, no doubt. Step carefully."

"Ouch," I reply dully, "my feelings."

"Shut up and come to me." He motions for my compliance, demands it in his tone. I had fallen behind. "I want no complications, Kya, from you or from anything else."

I pause in my scowling. "Anything else…?" I move next to him, quickly. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"On the surface you are never alone."

I wait for him to elaborate. He doesn't, which only serves fuel to my wildly running imagination. I swear I start seeing shapes moving in the mists. I'm almost expecting to hear an imp laugh.

"Concentrate," Ghirahim reminds me. "Any occurrences in your head about temples or secret places?"

"N-No, I… What makes you so intent on temples?"

"The goddess and her little mortals built many across the surface—a majority of them done in secrecy as acts of worship from her followers." Ghirahim sneers with contempt just from mentioning them. "The first Gate of Time was in such a temple. It stands to reason the second would be in similar surroundings."

"Why'd you never check the Sealed Temple, then?" I wonder to myself rather than ask—because I always had wondered why—but realizing what I've said aloud freezes me in mortification. _What the hell have you done? Think before you speak, think!_

The mists swirl. A loud pop echoes from afar.

Ghirahim glares in the direction of the noise before turning to me. "You think I have not?" He laughs shortly. "The only thing residing there is a bitter old crone guarding dust."

I blink once, twice, letting his explanation sink in. "But…" I cannot help myself. "How did you get in?"

He chuckles lightly, smirks. "The old bat isn't as vigilant as she thinks, and besides, there are plenty of ways to peer inside."

"Oh…" I suppress a relieved sigh. "So…not there, huh?"

He scoffs. "No, darling, of course not. Not even the goddess would be so stupid as to place a Gate right next to my Master, in such an obvious location."

I stare bewilderingly, but wisely refrain from speaking. He has no idea…

The loud popping and cracking noise again reverberates through the fog, once more drawing Ghirahim's silent ire.

"What is tha—?"

"Come along. Quietly."

"Okay," I start after him, "but—ow!" I slap a hand over the back of my head, glare with pained confusion at the pebble rolling at my feet.

Looking up, I see Ghirahim staring out at something over my shoulder, his lips drawn in a tight line.

I flash a glance behind me. Only mist. "Okay," I say, facing the demon lord, "what the f—"

The ground splits open behind me, pops and claps presaging booming groans and shudders. Rock rises up in splintering cracks, dirt falls in roaring hisses.

"Kya, to me!" Ghirahim calls over the racket.

I'm running to him before he finishes speaking, not daring to look back. A shadow blots what's left of the murky sun.

A creature twenty feet tall and made of rock looks down on me—or it doesn't. There are no eyes in what I take for its head, or a nose, or a mouth. It is only rock, all condensed together to make a burly, grotesque form vaguely resembling a hunchbacked human, complete with crooked stubs for toes and fingers. Its head, which is no more than a bumpy rock atop a hulking boulder making its torso, fixates straight ahead, not bothering to look up or down or anywhere.

 _It looks like a golem_ , I think, standing petrified.

Everything is quiet for a few moments, the sound of trickling dirt all that disrupts it.

Then the creature—the golem—raises its arm, the gravel making up the joint grinding with the motion. I gawk in astonishment as it lifts its hand high, forgetting the dagger at my belt in a half-hardened grip.

The golem brings its hand down and I am slammed to the side with just enough presence of mind to glimpse Ghirahim knocking me out of harm's way. He catches the golem's arm in his, now blackened to the elbow.

"Loathsome cur." Ghirahim grins derisively. "Couldn't you stay asleep like a good little Taliticus? No matter." He shoves upward with such force it sends the rock creature off-balance.

It shakes the ground with its fall.

I stumble to my feet.

"Kya, stay where you are. You won't be of any use to me in this."

I try not to let that sting. I lower my hand from my belt. I respect and grudgingly obey, looking on with an awe I attempt to mask with sourness.

The golem crawls back to its legs, waves its massive arms at Ghirahim in horizontal swipes. The wind buffeted by its powerful movements lick at my hair and dress. Ghirahim sends barrages of daggers at it, jabs the blade of his sword into the clusters of its knee and ankle joints, chipping away at the stone and earth collected there, ripping at the moss that had grown over it while it slept. He teleports, left, right. For all its fanatical waving it never lands a blow. It falls onto its back again and again, and Ghirahim keeps pushing. But no matter what, it keeps getting up.

They get further through the mists and, not wanting to miss any of the fight, I follow after them.

Getting up close, I see exactly what Ghirahim is going for. A cliff, jagged and steep, with no end in sight, leading down into a chasm of fog.

 _He's going to knock it down there_. I hesitate going any closer to the edge, instead stand on tip-toe and stretching out to get a better look into the misty below. _Good plan, I guess, considering that thing seems to have no weaknesses_.

Ghirahim leaps over a swing from a lumbering limb, lands on the creature's 'shoulder' and thrusts his blade into its neck. A loud crack resounds, but no give. With graceful agility the demon lord kicks off the golem, backflipping to land a safe distance away. The golem teeters dangerously from the push, bits of earth cascading down the cliff at its heels.

Ghirahim grins.

The golem leans surreptitiously forward, saving itself the fall.

Ghirahim frowns. "Oh, come now! Just fall off! Annoying pest. Where do you think you're going? I'm not going to let you get away after wasting so much of my ti—" His eyes widen on me. "Get down, Kya!"

Panic is not something I'm used to hearing from Ghirahim. Ever.

Before I realize, the rock golem looms, its bulky arm barreling towards me. All I see is the great shadow of it blocking out my sight, and then the sound of Ghirahim's teleportation rings in my ears. The earth comes up to my face, the smell of moist dirt filling my nostrils. A weight on my back is forced off by the blow rent by the golem. The hand that was pressing on my shoulder blade is torn off, fingers scraping at me as it goes. I turn my head to the side in time to see Ghirahim sailing over the side of the cliff. I stare in disbelieving shock as his form gets smaller and smaller, disappearing into the mists.

"Oh…my God," I croak. "Oh my God. _Oh my God_!" I shoot up on wobbling legs. "You knocked him off the cliff! Oh my God! You knocked—! _You piece of shit_!" I shriek with increasing intensity.

The golem lumbers toward me, uncaring of my words or giving any indication it heard.

I rip the dagger from my belt, teeth baring in a snarl. "I'll kill you!" My words are as big as my voice and laden my actions with expectations far too much to live up to. But I do not think of that, of my thin body or my weak noodle limbs. The smoke of rage covers everything except what I want. To stab.

Later I will question it. Later I will look back with foreboding at the raw authenticity of my anger, and fear how it will cause me to act in the future regarding one I now so readily call 'Master'.

But in the moment I see only red. And a rock I wish could bleed.

The golem brings its fist over my head. I jump inland from the cliff, the splash of my skirt grazed by the golem's strike. The ground where I had stood concaves, splitting dirty veins. The tremor sends me stumbling. I keep my feet under me, swipe out with the dagger. It does less than a cat's scratch.

The golem drags its fist across the terrain, tearing up grass and roots and loosening small rocks. I scramble from the golem's strike, but have no way of escaping the earthen rain pelting my skin and gritting into my eyes. Aggression turns to panic. _I can't see—I have to get away_! Humiliation isn't the only thing on my tail, though the golem is much slower.

"Stupid rock," I growl, looking back through rapidly blinking eyes, trying to clear them. "I don't know how but I'm going to…" I trail off.

The golem pulls back its arm like it's going to throw a punch.

 _Move_ , a feeling of absolute dread tells me. _Move_!

My lungs heave, my legs burn, running with speed fed by terror. I toss half-blind glances over my shoulder. My heart shakes with fearful amazement. The golem follows through with the punch and its entire fist breaks from its arm. The projectile boulder flies, slams and shatters into the ground not five feet from me. My scream careens into the mists. Bits of earth fly, as do I. I fall flat, skidding a line through dirt and grass. A sharp outcrop of bedrock slices my wrist to the elbow. The pain stings, and the emotions instilled in me skyrocket.

 _I'm going to kill you_.

I shoot back into my run, and in circles I go around the golem. Heart pounding a war drum. Muscles stretching and contracting, burning. A stitch stabbing into my side. Still, I go, a single-minded determination usurping control. Tears streak my dirty face, cleansing my eyes.

 _Look for a weakness. They always have a weakness._

Around and round I go, the golem clumsily spinning after me, until I see it. A sparkling at its back, just under its head. My blood roars, my gasps drown out any thought of impending suicide. Running, running, I close in, zig-zags and dodging leaps. I shove my dagger's hilt between my teeth. Upon it, I rush in between its legs, whirl and jump to its back. I cling to the crevices of its hip, climb. The gravel making its junctions move as it does, pinching one of my fingers and nearly crushing another. The dagger muffles my shriek. Pain gives food to my wild-eyed frenzy.

I kick and fight to the top, with one last lurch getting my hand caught in its neck joint, using the grip to steady while I ready my dagger.

The golem cranes its neck, and I swear I hear a bone in my hand pop.

Screeching, I stab the smooth slab of gold, not even knowing if it will work, or if I'm just a fool who played too many games once upon a time.

The tip of the dagger bounces off uselessly with every desperate strike.

And then one little chip flies off.

Nothing. The golem gives no reaction beyond its stumbling attempt to shake me off. My heart and breath seize.

The golem shudders and falls to its hands and knees not a moment later. With its back level, gravity no longer fights me.

I commence my assault with renewed hope, stabbing like a deranged woodpecker. With every golden chip that falls away, the rock golem convulses.

I continue, continue. It's not enough. Frustrated tears gather. Fatigue weakens my every strike and panic climbs my heart. The unadulterated need to eliminate the threat mixes with thoughts pertaining to the bottom of the cliff.

"Die!" My demand morphs into plea. "Just die, _please, please just_ —!" With one last stab I slump, exhausted, defeated. Weakness found, but still…my own has come to fruition first.

A loud chime signals the downward thrust of a black blade into the golden patch. It pierces through with a reverberating crack. Ghirahim stands over me, feet paced on either side of me on the golem's back. His mussed hair would look ridiculous on anyone else, but for him it only lends to the ferocity of his fang-bared snarl. He spews words in the demon dialect, their foulness transferred though their meaning not. He plunges the blade deeper, twists it, cracking the golem completely.

Just like that the creature falls apart, rocks no longer held together by cohesive magic. They fall and roll away like any other stone.

The back of my dress is grabbed and I'm thrown from what's left of the golem. I land sprawled on the grass, the soft pad of Ghirahim's graceful landing following me. He walks to me with deliberate slowness, palming the sharp edge of his sword, an angry glint in his eye. "Did I not tell you to stay put?"

I gawk at him stupidly. "Uh…huh."

"And did you?" He takes a threatening step closer, nearly on top of me.

I look him up and down, at the dirt streaking him, at his errant strands of hair, at his black fire expression…at the fact he was standing in front of me, unharmed.

…And I smile like a jackass.

His eyes widen and his lips thin with indignance. "You think it's funny, you little whelp?" He glances down at himself, sneering with disdain at his filthy state. With a click of his fingers and a flare of his diamonds he is back to his normal, pristine self. "There," he hisses, misunderstanding my joy's source. "Nothing for you to laugh at now—and when I'm through with you, you won't be!"

"You're okay."

It stops him in his tracks. "What?"

I'm still smiling, voice soft with relief. "You're…okay."

He catches it. "…Of course I am. Nitwit. Did you really think I could be done in so easily?" Offense tinges his tone, along with…something else. He's probing, waiting to see how I'll react.

I snap out of my daze. "Of—of course you're okay. I know that! I just didn't want you freaking out about…your clothes. Or your hair. Not like I… You… Whatever." I finish in a huff, embarrassment staining my face.

His eyes flit over me for what seems like forever. Whatever he was looking for, he seems satisfied he found it, smug even. "No need to worry, my darling. Stand up now. Show me you can walk."

I bite back a retort, too tired to resist. He catches me by the elbow when I falter, narrowing in on scrapes and bruises, and most notably the small gash on my arm.

"Good girl," he murmurs when I stand fully. "You did well to find that weak point. How did you know?"

"I just look where they usually are," I say, not bothering to clarify.

He sighs. "Ah, well. You certainly did better in this fight. Tell me, is blood a mitigating factor for you? We'll have to break you of that."

I scowl and shrug, not even wanting to think of the blood he's referring to. The blue Bokoblin flashes in my head anyway. And then, realizing implications, I do a double take. "When did you get back up here? Were you just…watching?"

He waves his hand dismissively. "Hush, darling. It was only for a minute and you were already clambering on that beast's back."

I make to yell, but as if on cue all my aches and pains burst through adrenaline's floodgate.

Ghirahim clicks his tongue and pulls me close. "So prone to injury. Poor little bird. Perhaps if you didn't fight so sloppily."

"I…!" But then I give up and sigh, lean against him.

"It's a good thing I was here to end it or you would have been stabbing at it all day." Laughter tickles his voice.

I frown and start to say something, but memory pricks. "What were you saying when you stabbed it, Master?"

His smile goes stiff and he averts his eyes. "Nothing you need concern yourself with."

"Sounded like a whole lot of cursing to me."

"I do not curse," he snaps. "You must learn, Kya, that one needs keep a sense of dignity around them at all times."

"Sure," I say, swallowing a remark about him not being very dignified when he went over the cliff. The blame was mine; I should have stayed back. "…Yes, Master," I amend before he can scold, lean my head against his chest.

It is then I notice something.

"What…" I tentatively lift the front flap of his cloak. A black line spans across his chest where the diamond cut-out exposes skin. "Are you…hurt?"

The cape disperses and Ghirahim thumbs at the mark, his hands gloved and arms white once more. "No, don't be ridiculous." But as he continues to rub at it the truth becomes apparent. He stops, stiffens. He smiles, the action smoldering growing anger at the imperfection disgracing his meticulously kept veneer. "Just. A scratch."

I blink in disbelief. "It scratched you?" I say it again, reaching out with a swelling hand, stopping myself from touching him by clenching it. Pain zaps up my arm. Rage rattles with shock in my voice. "It scratched you!"

"Don't be a fool." He glares accusingly. "The Taliticus didn't scratch me—the fall did."

Guilt douses my ire. "I… Amazing that's all that did then, considering," I say shakily, awkward in fumbling to push past my fault. _Should have stayed put._

Ghirahim leans down, looking right into my eyes, a dangerous smile tiltling his lips. "I'm not breakable, Kya," he whispers, breath puffing over my mouth. "Never forget that."

Alarm clenches my heart. _He doesn't think I tried to get him knocked off, does he?_ I flex my injured hand, hovering in concern. "I didn't…mean for it…"

Ghirahim's eyes soften. "So distraught, my darling little bird…" His gaze slides to the gash in my arm. "Perhaps…you would care to help me fix it?"

My curious stare is all the permission he needs. Gently he clasps my wrist, brings the lightly bleeding wound to his mouth.

"What are you—?" My cut myself off with a sharp inhale.

His tongue, warm and wet, trails the cut with languid slowness from wrist to elbow. His lips begin the path back to my wrist, brushing the soft skin of my arm's underside with subtle caresses. I stand rooted, shocked, uncomprehending when I feel…something pulling from inside me.

The scratch on his chest glows a faint white and closes up like a silent, lazy zipper.

My mouth opens with a croak.

Ghirahim pulls away, chuckles lowly. "Your aura is delicious, darling. Thank you."

"Aura…?"

"Your life-force. I merely borrowed some. See? All better. You can kiss it now." He motions to his chest, an entirely too pleased and smug look about him.

"Blood…?" Internally I cringe at my lack of coherent intelligence, but my astonishment does not allow me to come undazed.

"A conduit for transferring some life-force, but not necessary. It simply makes it easier." He watches me closely. "You didn't know demons could derive from another's aura? It can be used for many things—healing is one—but we'll not get into that gritty business now. How are you feeling?" He looks at me sharply now, eyes appraising.

I snap my jaw closed, fail to muster up a glare to hide my stupid one-word questions, and shrug. "Am I supposed to feel something? You know, besides everything the rock monster did to me?"

His stare tunnels deep. I fight to keep from squirming under its intensity. Then a grin splits his face. "Incredible. A normal human would have succumbed to exhaustion and fainted. But you…" He laughs with delight. "As I said, your aura never dissipates. Remarkable!"

"Uh…" I fidget. If his soul-piercing stare doesn't make me squirm, his praise does. "Eh."

He laughs low. "Articulate as ever, my darling." His knuckles brush my cheek and then with a snap of his fingers he summons a red potion. "Drink. But let's not get into many more skirmishes. There aren't many of these made."

* * *

"Look, look! I gotta get behind this one."

Ghirahim grunts a poorly suppressed groan. "What is your fascination with water? _Enough._ There wasn't anything behind the last waterfall; there won't be anything behind this one."

"But there _could_ be," I wheedle. "You won't know unless you look, so let me—oh, come on, Master!" I struggle against his grip on my collar—two fingers hooked over the gold. "Let me go. What if the Gate is back there?"

He scowls. "Do you take me for some gullible fool?" His glare turns from the water to me, vibrating with repressed excitement. It softens. "Oh, very well. If it will sate your curiosity."

He releases me abruptly and I fly forward, staggering to remain upright.

The waterfall is six times a man's width and taller than the long skinny trees surrounding the stone-laden alcove. It splashes into a shallow pool, sprays me with a light dusting of moisture. I move lightly along wet-shined rocks, the sun shining and the smell like a summer's rain, and sidle along the small cliff's face to get between smooth stone and water. I find nothing but. Not that I expected to, yet years of games and an explorer's spirit demanded I make sure. _Besides,_ I think, observing a certain demon lord through the white veil of water, _I'll be telling him about a vision of a waterfall later…_ For now, I lean back and enjoy the sound of rushing water.

"Enough, Kya!" He shouts over the rumble of the falls. "Come out this instant!"

I heave an annoyed sigh and make my way back to him. _He sounds like a fretting hen._

"No more," he says when I approach, surprising me by pulling me into the folds of his cloak. He dries my face with the satin-like fabric. "No more water, no more getting wet. We aren't in a bathhouse."

He ushers me along, silences me with a sharp glower after I ask what his grudge against water is.

I sigh and shrug, try to think no more of it.

Yet I can't stop my laughter when it starts raining. Ghirahim glares at the sky.

* * *

In a flash of diamond panes we appear in a forest that looks as old as time itself. I've never seen trees as tall as these—not even the great tree in Faron woods can compare. These trees stretch up tall as towers, their distant branches filling an all-encompassing canopy that turns day to night. Craning my neck to look up, my mouth falls open at all the mushrooms growing along the thick trunks. The ones in Faron look small compared to these discs. They are like stepping pads—stairs for giants wanting to reach the canopy. Some sit demurely, blending into the brown wood, others glow with a bioluminescence that makes them look like moons in the sky.

Ghirahim has to pull me along, but even then I walk in an amazed stupor.

Light fog filters around the trees, moss grows fur coats on the bark. My shoulder brushes one as we walk by. I jump, thinking I'd bumped an animal. With my attention on the furry tree, I in turn bump a slab of cracked rock.

I glare suspiciously.

"Here, darling, look at this." Ghirahim runs his hand over the face of the stone, and it is then I see the strange etchings lining it in arcs. Fissures and gnarled roots growing over the top of the stone obscure the writing further. "Anything you recognize?"

I squint at the etchings, fingertips grasping at my temple for non-existent glasses as per usual when I can't see something well. The carvings are a language, but not Hylian or any kind I know. I shake my head in the negative.

"Pity…" His eyes roam the words. "This is a part of the Rock of Ancients. Very few exist who can transcribe the words."

"You can?" I guess by the smugness lining his tone.

He smiles. "I can, though it is difficult, even for one such as I. Perhaps this will yield clues pertaining to our goal. Don't wander far."

With that, he throws his concentration to deciphering. I busy myself marveling over the forest.

Little steps turn to big ones. A circle around one tree leads to another. I swear I didn't walk much at all, yet when I look for Ghirahim and the stone, neither are there. Only mist and trees and sparkling spores falling from the elevated branching mushrooms. _It's not mist,_ I discover, waving my hand through the dust, rubbing the granules between my fingers. _Spores. All spores._

I glance up at the umbrella-like mushrooms, the softly illuminated ones the only source of light in this sun-blocked place. It also blocks the rain; water seeps gingerly through the canopy and trickles down the mossy trees, and I can't help but feel that's why Ghirahim chose to search here.

I stand and I wait. He'll find me. And he'll slap me.

Sure enough, his soft footsteps herald his arrival. I brace myself for impact. I face him.

Only to see empty space between the trees.

The footsteps sound behind me. I whirl. Again, nothing but forest.

Scuffling and a breaking twig creak to my right.

I slouch sullenly. "Okay," I call, "lesson learned. You can stop trying to scare me now."

My soft echo is the only answer. The birds have gone silent—were there any birds at all?

"Not funny!" I try again, the hairs standing on my skin. I spin a slow circle, intent on guarding my back. I know what he's going for. He's going to sneak up on me like he did with Link in Skyveiw.

Breath puffs on my neck.

"You!" I whirl and snarl.

Pale milky eyes stare back at me from a delicate oval face. Long green hair, so light it borders on white, falls in waves.

The figure and I stare at each other, neither moving.

Whoever this is I can tell, by the otherworldly glow of skin and eyes, they aren't human.

* * *

 **A/N: This is where inspiration from Breath of the Wild comes into play.  
**

 **I peruse writer's guides when I can. One guide from the website "Writing-World" gave me some profound advice on settings and descriptions. Avoid laundry list descriptions when you can. Instead of telling, or 'listing' how things look or are, use a character to interact with the setting. One article by Moira Allen gave an example: "If a heavy table dominates a room, don't tell us about it, but rather force your character to detour around it." They also went on to include the five senses, and how to implement those in a scene. I tried to apply the advice learned. I hope it came out okay.  
**

 **As always, thank you for reading. Feedback is much loved.**


	24. the others

**A/N: Life's been throwing hurdles. I apologize.**

 **Thank you** **Meta-Akira,** **thenumbertwentyseven, Alter Ego Bob, Moon ninja Luna, Branded Lunacy, Mokki Takashi, MayBeADragon12, MoonlightDovakiin (** Thank you! **), YingWhiteyWolf (** And I can't wait to show you. I'll get myself in gear. **), Bluebadger (** I hope you love the upcoming characters too. **), Pineapple (** I'm making up most of the settings not shown in-game. **), Voidlash (** Now if I can just remember to keep with the advice. **), Anon (** I completely overlooked that. I'm sorry. **), BOTW completer (** Thanks! **), charlie mara (** I read them every now and then. I'm glad you like this so far. **), Ambiguous Cake (** Yep! Pacing's slow, but they are. Let's see how they fare. **), MinMinette (** I'm glad you like it. I'll try to update more frequently. **), Bladedrake101 (** XD That's exactly what went through my head when I wrote it. **), Update (** Ha! XD **), and Just A Fan (** I'm happy you like it! Let's see where they go. **) for your reviews last chapter. They kept me going.**

* * *

 **Chapter 24  
**

She's female, that much is apparent from her naked form. Taller than me by a foot, small hips and breasts, bare feet light on the moss carpet which she stands, not causing so much as an indent. Her iridescent skin glistens in the glow of the bioluminescent mushrooms. Spore clouds swirl in a trancing light along her slender frame. No hair lends her coverage but for what's on her head; not on her arms, or legs, and none at all at the juncture between her thighs. Her body is smooth without a trace of the downy fuzz normal for humans.

I don't move, fearful motion of any kind will trigger something from this unknown woman. But do I even call her a woman? She looks human enough, with a small nose and bowed lips. But the unnatural radiance of her skin and the frond-like antennae sprouting from her forehead, pale yellow and smoothed back with her lush hair, gives her away as something else entirely.

Not to mention those huge milky eyes. She hasn't blinked yet at all.

But then neither have I.

I can't help myself: I take a step backwards, and my fear confirms itself.

The spell of stillness, which not even the birds dared to sever, is broken.

"I have not seen a human on the surface in centuries." She speaks with the voice of water, soft, soothing. "How odd to find one here and now."

I don't believe her inconspicuous manner for a second. The air tingles with the eerie coolness of her voice. I take another step back, the moss squelching quietly under the weight of my feet.

"You are afraid," she states with no real implication in her tone. She stands in tranquil stasis, the only movement being the words she forms with her mouth and the languid orbit of the spore trails.

My muscles tense, ready either to fight or take flight.

"You are very wise," she continues, a slight smile curling the corners of her lips. Her glassy gaze travels leisurely down the length of my body. Just as slowly she returns to my face. "But, I am afraid it will not save you."

I pull my dagger and jump back, bracing for violence.

The female whatever-she-is does not follow. Instead her smile grows, pinked lips drawing away to reveal a horror show of small pointed teeth, as fine and clear as splinters of shattered glass.

I blink and she's gone.

A strange sensation, similar to the feeling Ghirahim instilled when he partook of my life-force, ebbs at my back like tugged strings. I spin around, lash out with the dagger. "Back off!"

With fluidity she leans just out of the blade's reach. She tilts her head in confusion. "What is this? Such a strange aura you have…"

Her voice never wavers from its flat inflection.

I stagger backwards, raise the dagger and bare my teeth. With dreadful awareness I feel a change in the air surrounding us. Something's coming. Or someone. I just hope it's not more of this…thing. _Please let it not be more of this freak._

After several tense moments her unblinking gaze hones in on my throat, regards the jeweled collar. "You are owned…"

"Indeed she is."

The lumination from the glowing fungi dims by way of a force not seen, but most definitely felt. Ghirahim strolls through the trees into the small clearing, his very presence pushing the mist of spores away and darkening the forest. He stands out against the earthy hues surrounding him in a stark contrast of red velvet and white silk.

I clench my dagger, take a deep breath. _Another fight._ Yet despite the upcoming confrontation I can't stop the relief that floods through my system at the sight of him. His company signifies strength and safety, a net that would surely catch me if I fell into danger. A niggling sensation at the back of my conscience warns me I shouldn't feel like that, shouldn't _allow_ myself to feel as such, but the situation at hand doesn't let me dwell on it.

The milky-eyed female turns her head to the threat, blinks once, slowly, and then…

Smiles pleasantly.

"Lord Ghirahim." She clasps her hands, bows her head.

Said demon lord laughs loudly, spreads his arms in a gesture of welcome. "Indua! How long has it been?"

"Fifty-two years, my lord." Her lashes lower. "I have missed you."

My widened, confused stare darts between the two.

"Ah, has so much time passed? My, my, how it flies. I have been so terribly busy." He smiles with apologetic innocence, a hand coming to rest over his heart.

Apprehension stays with me. "What…"

Ghirahim silences me with a motion of his hand. "But enough reminiscing. Tell me, Indua, how have you been faring?"

"Well enough, my lord. Though I suspect you did not come all the way out here to ask me such."

"As vigilant as ever." He grins wickedly, crosses his arms. "No, I have come searching for a Gate of Time."

"Hmm, I have not sensed nor seen a timestone in…"

His smooth chuckle ripples through the clearing. "I'm not the only one losing track, hm?"

I gawk in disbelief, but that melts into outrage soon enough. As Ghirahim and this—this— _Indua!_ converse like old friends, I'm left to stand here like a silenced idiot. How do they know each other? What was that sultry look she gave him? _I missed you?_ I expected a battle and instead I'm sidelined on a clash of companionship. What is this? And how can she stand there stark naked without batting an eye? Questions mount and my frustrations grow. The tension building in my body since Indua appeared has done nothing but tighten—to stretched and almost unbearable lengths. Soon I'm edging out of there, wanting nothing more to do with it all.

It is Indua who interrupts my escape. "Your human is quite a strange one. Does she leave without her master's permission?"

I stop in my tracks to glare at the nude freak, at her abnormally flawless skin, at her pert rosy—

 _Ugh!_ My eyes flick away in disgust.

"She's an adventurous one," Ghirahim answers with hints of laughter in his voice, "and so excitable. You should have seen her when we first came out here—you would think she had never seen a blade of grass in her life!"

Indua stares hard at me. "Her aura is like none I have ever tasted…"

The beat of silence is palpable.

Just like that the temperature of the atmosphere plummets, becoming as icy as the top of the mesosphere. Expressions freeze, bodies stiffen. The first signs of aggression rumble beneath the surface.

All joviality drops from Ghirahim faster than a ball into a chasm. He speaks lowly, his voice reminding me of the menacing scrape of a blade in the dark. "Tasted her, have you?"

Indua returns her gaze to him and, seeing her error, immediately lowers her head. "Forgive me, my lord. I did not see the collar until it was too late."

Ghirahim narrows his eyes. "How uncharacteristically unobservant of you."

They stare at the other in a prolonged silence, Indua's milky eyes stoically perplexed, Ghirahim's black caverns glinting with dangerous promise. My dagger remains unclipped, held unassuming but ready at my side.

Indua ends the chilly silence. "It is odd for you to act this way over a slave, especially a human one. Are they not no more than food or entertainment?"

My mind sputters and flat lines. _What did she just say?_

Despite the flash of warning in Ghirahim's face, she continues: "Where did this human come from? It has been ages since one walked the surface."

"Where else would she have come from? Where all humans fled to. The sky! Don't ask how she survived the fall." Ghirahim's words are short and clipped. He uncrosses his arms, but the tic of his fingers shows he's still agitated.

Indua must sense it. Suddenly she folds her arms in an X across her chest, hands clasped over each shoulder, and bows at the waist. Her tenor fills with reverence. "I respect all that you are and all that is yours. I always have. Please accept my sincerest apologies, Lord Ghirahim. I will pay special care not to touch her again, nor anything else that is yours, in the future."

He relaxes marginally. His fingers stop twitching. "See that you don't." His smile holds a perilous edge. "And Indua, you will forget her aura. It is malformed, and not for you or any other to taste."

She bends lower, the long waves of her hair spilling over her shoulders, brushing the ground. "Understood. She will be mentioned to no one."

I listen to the exchange in a fog of bewilderment. From the disturbing mention of people and food to the odd bow to the focus on my aura, it all blitzes through my brain like lightning. And then, with abrupt irritation: Can she not bend over like that? Her white ass is bared for all to see!

As if reading my mind Indua straightens, peers at me from over her shoulder. "Such an odd human. Not like the red-eyed Sheikah or blue-eyed Hylians of long ago. Round ears… A rare breed, indeed. I can see why you have not eaten her or thrown her away."

Baffled alarm at that last statement brings jitters to my legs. Food. Eaten. What the hell is she on about? Does this crazy bitch actually think people are food? The heat of anger creeps up my neck. The dark green hilt of my dagger creaks in my grasp. More of her words penetrate my thick skull. A rare breed? Talking about me like I'm some sort of dog? A pet? _A know-nothing pet!_ Like I'm not even standing here, listening!

The smile spreading Ghirahim's lips jumps at the corner. It is not a kind smile. "Indua, you speak out of turn. You are coming dangerously close to _vexing_ me. A first for you…"

I glance to him in surprise, hopeful for defense, or at least some sort of denial from him.

But he gives nothing more but a malicious smile and a daring glare.

Though she speaks to Ghirahim, Indua's gaze adheres to me. "You have no cause for worry from me, my lord. I will not speak of her."

And suddenly I can't take her unblinking stare anymore. That and the numerous implications of their conversation makes the tension and pressure that's been building along my nerves at last snap. A white light flashes briefly in the clearing, another force pushing the creeping mists of spores back. I don't realize I'm the source until too late, but by then I don't care. "Keep looking at me like that, bitch, and I'll gouge your freaky-ass eyes out!" My voice bounces off the trees in a rolling echo, dagger held up in invitation to disaster.

Indua falls silent, ever staring, but in that gaze skulks a dawning and confused fear—perhaps towards the strange light, here and gone like a camera's flash, but far too bright to be anything earthly.

Ghirahim's teleportation magic rings in the clearing, and in the wink of a moment he is next to me. With an arm coiling around my head he grabs my mouth and smashes my face into the side of his ribs. "You'll have to ignore her," he says, friendliness returning. "We're still working on manners, it seems."

"Humans…were not known for them," Indua agrees, voice wavering with nervous residue.

I rage through his hand.

"Yes, it is a constant struggle. One I will ultimately win." He looks down on me in warning.

"That aura," she begins, eyeing me warily. "If I may ask…"

"You may not ask. Do not overstep your bounds, Indua, and more importantly do not make me question the leniency I'm showing you now due to our past…communions."

I go still in my struggles, mind tricking over that last word.

Ghirahim wraps up business. "We shall be on our way. Places to be, you know how it is."

Indua's antennae perk, the fronds unfolding to life, and it is not until they do that I realize how flat and dejected she looked. "If it pleases you, will you not come gaze into the Telling Pool? Perhaps it will help you find what you seek."

"Not this time." His thumb covertly strokes my cheek. "I have a lead and quite frankly I'm on a tight schedule. If you'll excuse me."

Indua inclines her head, antennae flattening once more. Insipid light shines from her back, and the lunar green wings of a moth appear in the fade. Their filmy width spans far past her body, wispy tips nearly touching the ground. Two bright yellow dots on each wing imitate ever-gazing eyes. The wings sway gently.

"Indua."

With veneration she meets Ghirahim's hard stare.

"Not a word," he cautions once more.

The otherworldly creature covers her mouth with both hands. When she lowers them like a slowly falling curtain the mouth is gone, leaving only bare skin where lips and teeth should be.

My alarmed expletive is muffled by Ghirahim's palm.

Another sway of wings signals Indua's departure. The flap scatters spores of her own and forming together they become an orb of light that engulfs her. When the orb disperses so does she. Stunned, I watch the flickering balls of light until they disappear past the trees lined with the moon-like fungi and into the dense, silent forest.

The birds still don't sing.

Ghirahim and I stand in the stillness of the forest. No birds or breeze or snapping twig dares to break it.

With a click of fingers and a chime and flash of diamond fractals, we follow Indua's example of retreat, reappearing on the outskirts of the taller than life trees. Here, at the edge of the forest, the trees are shorter, their differing heights growing larger the further in they go. The sun blazes from its position of downward descent, and the purple and blue shadows hide from it, are pushed deep into the woods. The rain has reduced to a light drizzle, gives a prickling nip against the sun's warmth on my exposed skin.

Suddenly Ghirahim's palm leaves my mouth to connect with the back of my head. The hit is hard and not like the little hair-tussling taps he's been prone to giving me lately.

I clutch my head, draw a hissing breath through my teeth. "Holy fu—"

He captures my chin and forces me to look into his stony face. "You will _never_ embarrass me like that again."

My eyes flare with fury. I jerk my chin from his grasp. "Embarrass _you?_ Oh"—begins the sarcasm—"I'm so sorry I embarrassed you, Master, after you stood there"—My sarcastic tone delves to sincere viciousness—"and let that—that—that _thing_ humiliate me, talking about me like I'm a dog! _Don't roll your eyes at me!_ "

His wandering eyes snap back onto me. After a moment of passing rage, they soften. He puts a cool hand to my flushed face. "Hush. Don't work yourself up over things you don't understand."

"I understand when I'm being talked down to just fine," I say past gritted teeth. "And what was that she said about _food? Entertainment?_ "

"Shh, it was nonsense. Indua likes to be facetious." His fingers find their way into my hair. He smiles indulgingly. "Humans have never been regarded highly by our kind." His smile turns rueful. "Most were not kept for servitude…"

What he implies strikes my heart with cold dread. The dark creatures from my dreams chasing human figures of light. Snuffing them out. And if not that, then chains and whips, no doubt. And starving and thirsting and bitter cold towers and…!

Wrath shakes me, balls my fists. I'm still holding the dagger.

"My sweet bird…" Ghirahim cups my cheek with his free hand. His eyes dart back to the trees. He switches to English. " _We are too close to prying ears…_ _Listen to me. To treat you differently from an ordinary servant before others would only accentuate your presence and bring potential harm to you. We must keep quiet about you._ "

My glower cools marginally. "I… What?" I revert to my original language. " _What are you talking about?_ "

" _Lesser demons like Bokoblins are too stupid to notice, and so blind in their obedience they would not dare to try, but greater demons like myself can and will notice. Don't give me that surprised look—I told you there were others. Many of them have an ambition that is a thread away from overcoming loyalty. You mustn't be known to them, lest they covet your aura…and your knowledge._ "

Understanding bears down with a sobering weight. My mouth presses a thin line, eyes narrowing.

He hums a grim assent. His fingers start kneading just behind my ear. " _You cut it close just now. Indua has been a loyal ally for as long as I've known her, but…_ " He peers over my head into the forest, eyes narrowing to near slits. " _But even she cannot know your significance._ _To think it almost came to that. I would have hated to kill her._ "

" _Kill her?_ " I push at his hands and step from him, having had enough of him petting me like I'm a horse that needs calming. " _Is that how you treat long-standing allies? I feel sorry for her._ " And a part of me really does—going in complete opposition to the side that's still fuming over how she treated me. Yet…

Yet there is another reason. If he is so quick to kill an old friend over a slave… A sinking sense of despair grips into my heart. Should I stand against Demise he will be just as quick to kill me. And I'll have to stand. There's no way I could sit and let humans be slaughtered or put in chains. Just…no way.

The wind blows through the trees, the damp of the deep woods flowing around us. It feels cold and subconsciously I huddle inward, stepping towards the sun and away from Ghirahim and the forest. The leaves whisper as if in ominous warning of the future.

" _Sorry for her? Whatever for? If I had had to kill her it would have been your fault, little idiot. I told you not to wander far, and what did you do?_ " He matches me stride for stride until he has my chin in his hand again, fingers stroking anew. " _Though I suppose I cannot pin it all on you. Her illusions are second to none and anything without magical abilities is susceptible to being ensnared. She feeds on the auras of those unlucky enough to fall into her trap, and with an aura like yours she would have been set for life. It's a good thing I came for you when I did._ "

I think back to the forest, to the quiet stillness. There was no trill of birds or scratch of squirrel or…anything. Now I have an idea as to why.

I suppress a shiver.

 _"If anything… Ah…_ " He laughs almost self-effacingly. " _Perhaps I should not have let you wander in the first place. But…_ " His eyes cloud with an emotion I can't recognize. " _You were so happy to see all there is…_ "

What he's admitting unnerves me. Like my usual cowardly self, I gloss over it and search for the middle ground. " _It was…everyone's fault, then?_ "

Ghirahim laughs low and sweet. " _Yes. Yes, darling, let's go with that_."

" _What is she?_ " Out of nowhere, anger returns like a cracking whip, and I can't stop myself from thinking of Indua's fluttering lashes or of Ghirahim's comment about 'communion.' Suddenly, absurdly, I want to ask who she is to him and what their past intersections contained. My next words come out rough: " _Is she, um…_ " I trail off—wondering why I'm even wondering. I mean, he's gay, and even if he isn't what business is it of mine?—and chicken out. " _She a demon too?_ "

" _A nymph, if you want to be exact. She's more closely related to the fae, actually, than to the demon tribe._ " He shrugs, a playful smile curling the side of his mouth. " _But a creature of mystery and magic all the same._ "

" _It's a wonder why she couldn't magic up some dang clothes_ ," I mutter.

Ghirahim bursts out laughing. " _Oh! I forgot how prudish you humans can be! Nakedness does not mean much to fae and demons, darling. Clothes are used more for statements and whims of fancy than for modesty._ "

I take in the sight of the many cut-outs adorning his outfit. " _I see._ "

He sticks his tongue out at me with all the maliciousness of a teasing child. " _Little brat. Come, we've dallied long enough and the sun inches ever closer to the horizon. The Rock of Ages gave me little more than clues to a 'swell of bitter water' and 'homes among the mountains.' Does that mean anything to you? No? Then there's nothing left for us here._ "

* * *

Throughout our journey I can't stop the foreboding climbing up the walls of my heart. I can't stop thinking about Indua, or of what else we might run into down here. It seems the Taliticus, that giant stone golem, isn't going to be the worst of it.

Ghirahim keeps me under his arm and under his cloak. "Stay close to me, Kya, at all times. I'm content to let you see as much as you like, but under no circumstances will you leave my side."

"Yes, Master." I feel like a chick under its mother's wings.

He gets us out of the drizzle of rain and into a wooded area of amber leaves that magnify the sunshine until it is a blare in my eyes. Its golden beauty takes my breath all the same. Warm radiance chases away the chill lingering on my skin, and again Ghirahim uses his velvet red cloak to rub excess water from my exposed flesh, shortly does the same for himself.

I watch him in the golden gleam. "You still haven't told me why you hate water. You take baths, right?"

He smooths his curtain of hair. "Hush about it. A bath is an entirely different matter. It is controlled and purposeful."

"So you hate anything you can't control? Ha, that's typical."

His glare snaps to me sharply, and I think back to a time when he would have rather put a dagger to my lips than let me talk back to him. Now he either just glares or smiles. I never know which I'm going to get. Sometimes both.

Like right now.

"Uh," I start, inching away from him. "What are you planning?"

That slow, devious smile grows. "Mm, nothing. What would I be planning? I was just thinking…" He saunters my way, pausing for dramatic effect. "…of giving you a reason to be wet."

The double-meaning is not lost on me, especially with his voice taking on a low sensual vibe. My heart jumps to my throat.

"I, uh… Ack!" I dodge a clump of dirt aimed at my face. "Hey!"

He picks up another clod from the ground, his smile turned delightedly vicious, and hurls it at me. I roll to the side, feel the scratchy caress of the reddish grass. Dirt sprays my cheek and neck and I'm made to quickly dodge again, rolling the way I came. I stagger to my feet in ragged victory. "Ha! You missed me!"

I just get the words out when a clump of dirt nails me right in the forehead.

Ghirahim's laughter bounces off the stout trees and wind-rustling shrubbery. It's the only thing giving trace to his location as I'm too busy clawing bits of earth away from my eyes. With enough cleared away, I risk opening my lids a trifle. Ghirahim flings his hands in a downward motion to rid his gloves of dirty residue.

He's smiling, shaking his head. "There. Now we'll have to give you a bath when we get—"

Dirt explodes on the side of his head, brown staining the white purity of his hair.

Slowly, so very slowly, he turns an icy gaze on me.

There I stand, stuck in a baseball pitcher's stance, arm outstretched, one leg forward, knees bent. As soon as his glower rests fully on me I jump upright, arms held up and out on either side of my body in a 'come at me' pose. "One hit, bro! One hit!"

In spite of my brave words and posture, my feet carry me swiftly backwards as if they alone made the wise decision to retreat.

Specks of dirt fall from his hair and that vicious grin alights on his face again. Laughter bubbles up from his chest, starting quiet but growing louder and louder.

I start running.

Hearing the whisper of his cat-like footfalls behind me, I start screaming.

He drags it out, I know he does, know that he could catch me in the fraction it takes to blink if he wanted to. But he doesn't. I run, squealing, heart thundering with both thrill and fear, and he chases, huffing with suppressed laughter and grunts that are no doubt supposed to be ferocious, spurning me on.

His arms capture me at the waist and he takes us both to the ground. We roll, grappling for each other, backs meeting starchy grass and golden soaked air intermittently. He pushes my nose into a moist lump of earth—I fling a shower of particles over him in retaliation. My growls and grumbles vibrate the patch of grass beneath my chin; his laughter plays music amongst the amber-kissed branches.

"Now look what you've done." He sighs in feigned exasperation, pulling me into a sitting position beside him. "We're both in need of a bath now." He leans into me, purrs teasingly in my hair, "Maybe we'll save time and take one together."

"Oh, geez!" I shove at him, ignore his trilling giggle. How the heck he manages to sound masculine laughing like that I'll never know.

I'm swiping earthy specks from my hair when I catch something glittering in the distance. My clawing hand stops mid-comb. They look like dust motes, floating, swaying in the languorous air. "Are those…?"

Ghirahim follows my stare. "Fairies. Have you never seen them before?"

My mind scans through my time in this world for evidence I've seen in person and not by way of a screen. "…No, I haven't seen…"

Ghirahim turns his head to me, smiling. "Let's go look then."

We find their homes littering the trees and rocks. Their doors are no more than holes bored into the stone and bark, the likes of which I would expect to be the dens of snakes or weasels if I were merely passing by. I peer into each and every one, wide-eyed as a child at the wonders of this whole new world. The apprehension and sparking rage I felt earlier lies forgotten in the back of my mind, waiting to be unearthed. And it will be. When all is quiet, I'll stop and feel my heart writhe. But for now, now…

I want to see all there is to see. I want to know all there is to know.

And these pitch black tunnels are holding secrets I can only guess at.

"Look at you." Ghirahim huffs a laugh from behind me. "Prophetess, with your divine knowledge, clueless as to how the denizens of the surface live and breathe."

"Y-yeah," I say distractedly. "I guess you could say I'm…" I become enthralled by a little glowing spark and a glimmer of tiny wings. "…Uncultured."

His hands slide onto my shoulders, grasp gently. "Then I shall have to culture you."

I tilt my head all the way up to look at him. He's smiling, eyes lidded in that oddly…fond look I can't figure out.

"Come. We have a lot of ground to cover yet, my darling."

I don't know what to make of his tone of voice either, or how his thumbs stroke my skin at the diamond-shaped cut-outs baring my shoulders. Both gentle. Both deep and silky. The gears in my head start to work it through, but I'm once again distracted and pulled into the world in front of me.

"We may be searching for the Gate," he says as I totter after him, "but I see no reason to deprive you of a little sight-seeing. Come, I'll be happy to show you our land. But"—He whirls to face me—"remember what I said?"

"Stay close."

"You are so _good_ ," he nearly coos, and then he takes my hand and interlocks our fingers, leading me along.

He takes me across woodlands and prairies, through numerous ancient groves and moors. One such area is littered with stones in the shape of stalagmites taller than fifty feet. I pass through the stripes of their shadows like a deer through a forest of stone.

But nothing in the scenery is as interesting as the creatures I find dwelling there.

The other demons…

Ghirahim pulls me back under his cape, mutters words in a dialect I can't understand, and tiny diamond fractals flitter over me.

"Keep quiet," he says, squeezing me close, so close I might meld with his hip. "The spell I've cast makes them unable to see you as long as you are touching me."

We walk in silence around village outskirts. One is built up on the highlands, with homes dug from under the rolling hills, the land itself serving as rooftops. The breeze carries the scent of smoked meat, of the earthen breath coming from their open doorways. I catch a glimpse of scaled humanoids, a tail flashing, and horns sprouting from dark heads. I hear laughter and hisses.

Another village is built in the thick trunks of ancient trees. The people there have wings like bats, cling to the braches that serve as balconies to their towering homes. They smell of bark and leather and midnight breezes.

In a wooded area we find the trails left behind by the small hunting parties of a Bokoblin tribe. I catch a glimpse of them through thorny vines and skinny branches, waddling through the underbrush, their skins painted and their weapons made of bone and wood.

"Is this where they really live?" I ask.

"Yes. Here and there. They're called for service and should they survive they are allowed to return to their clans within the Tribe."

"This tribe?"

"The _clans_ are all over," he says. "The Demon Tribe as a whole is under the rule of my master, and while the various clans govern themselves…mostly…they all answer to their king."

I find it all so fascinating.

Ghirahim takes me to see so much more. We edge along houses hollowed out of stone, peer around corners at a dark-skinned horned race dwelling in intricate caves with sparkling crystals as their light sources, and the smooth rock beneath my feet speaks to paths worn and carved through generations.

When he takes me out on the prairie once more, it is to see a seemingly normal looking village. Round houses of bleached stone and sweet hayed roofs sit among inconspicuous clusters of trees, though these have all the colors of fall.

"The sprites love to change the colors," Ghirahim explains. "It brings them some sort of unexplainable joy, I suppose."

And from the corner of my eye I see a spark, and spot a sprite doing just that. The slight figure, her hair styled in an odd swell atop her head, starts off as a normal sized woman, but when she leaps for the branches she morphs into one almost as tiny as a fairy, perching lightly on a leaf, the red hue turning green and then yellow. She dances on the leaf, barely shaking it with her nimble feet.

I start forward, intent on a closer look at the creature. Her skin is a pinkish red. Is that a result of her magic or—?

"Kya," Ghirahim hisses, pulling me back sharply. "What did I say?"

"Oh, right. The spell. Sorry."

"You will be if any of them see you. Indua I can tolerate. No other." He stares down at me, his face holding no pity. "Do you know what I'll have to do? We both know how much bloodshed upsets you."

I shrink back, pressing my body to his, feeling the cool silk of his suit and the unyielding skin and muscle beneath. I think of the power housed within him and look again at the houses and little people. He could wipe out that entire village if he wanted to.

"L-let's keep going," I say. "For the Gate, I mean. I've seen enough. Thank you."

His smile is smugly polite, like he's proud to have made his point and to have given me tour I was so desperate for.

The hills burn red with the sun, now connecting with the horizon.

We end up on a cliff, overlooking a glittering sea in an area that Ghirahim says is far south of Faron. He tells me it is aptly named the South Sea, with little enthusiasm.

Alone and out of sight of others, I come out from the shelter of his cape, making my way to a gently sloping decline, hoping to get down to the waters. My mouth opens in an excited inhale, and I taste the salt riding the sea-born breeze.

"No further!" He grabs me by the sleeve and snaps me back. "We'll not go to the sea."

"But—"

"No." He frowns at me firmly. "You'll stay away from the water, Kya, especially the salt water. Those waves will drag you out and down, stripping you of all you vitality until nothing's left."

I crane my neck, looking at him curiously. Where has all this come from? What's his deal with water? I wonder for the hundredth time. I glance back out at the glimmering ocean with longing. I remember evenings spent on the sand and waves with my family in a world far away, back in the days when we spent time together. To be able to have an iota of that experience again…

Ghirahim glowers in the same direction with perforating disdain.

I look at him in utter confusion. Then, my near dormant intuition belatedly comes to the rescue. I don't know why but, suddenly, I get the feeling he was hurt once by those waters of unfathomable length and depth.

"You're not gonna say what happened, are you?" It's not so much a question as it is a knowing statement.

He turns that hard gaze on me. "No."

I stare into those black impenetrable eyes, so much like the dark tunnels I tried to peer into before, but with no hope for a glitter of mythical wing or calming light. I don't expect to see anything. I look anyway.

Then, so small it is almost imperceptible, a glimmer, like a silver fish skirting just beneath the black ice. Whatever it was, my heart clenches painfully for it.

Unthinkingly I throw myself into him, wrap my arms around his waist.

He emits a surprised 'mmph!' and in a reflex drops an arm over me. "What's this about?"

I rest my cheek against his pectoral, snug under the niche of his arm. "I don't know," I mumble, and really—I don't.

He huffs, amused. "Strange little thing…"

"…Are you afraid of drowning?" I prod despite my better judgement.

He scoffs so loud it almost sounds a cough. "Drown? What kind of nonsense—? I can't drown, child. I…"

I nose the frontal fabric of his cape aside, and as I move to look up at him my cheek slides against the inhumanly smooth muscle of his chest, over where his heart would be.

The thought of the Bokoblin he forced me to slay ebbs from my memory. The pit of aggrieved remembrance grows smaller. Here I am, clinging to him, speaking with him like he is a friend. I told myself I would stay on guard. _How can I make and break promises so easily?_ I ponder with distress. Am I such a fickle creature? Moments with him resembling normalcy shouldn't matter so long as I keep that edge of fear. I'm only in danger when I stop fearing him.

 _Don't stop fearing…_ The seed of dread is replanted. The fact I had to replant it at all screams volumes, but, terrifyingly, I ignore the screams.

There's something he's about to tell me.

He's gazing back out at the ocean now, something dark and angry and…haunted in his eyes.

"I…" He continues, his eyes taking on the fog of days gone by. "There was a time I had to claw out of that dark abyss, and I…" He swallows, his face setting like stone. "That dammed goddess separated me from my master, threw me into the sea, and…I don't know how long I fought. I thought I wasn't going to be able to make it back to him." His tone is grim, but his face betrays none of the fear his voice secretly divulges.

I wait in breathless trepidation. I've never heard or seen him like this.

His gaze suddenly clears and snaps down to me, as if he just realized he has an audience and wasn't just recollecting to himself. He yanks on my hair, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "Not a word of this," he hisses. "To anyone. Ever."

"Not ever," I repeat.

"I'll split your tongue in half if you do."

"Master," I say seriously. "I won't. Really. Even if you didn't _threaten_ me, I wouldn't."

He stares me down for long moments. Then, grip relaxing and eyes softening, he says, "We won't find what we're looking for here—and it's getting late besides. Let's go back home…" He bends and presses a kiss to my forehead. "…my sweet."

I look back out at the ocean one more time. Of course it'd have to do with his master, I think sullenly. Of course it'd have to do with being separated from him. Of course.

But then how does it involve me? His slave…

 _Why can't I go to the waves?_

And Ghirahim, as my master…

It clicks. Deep in my mind, it clicks.

It should frighten me, and I tell myself it does. This demon is drawing parallels between his master, himself, and me.

But though I silently profess and affirm my fear, the desire to run to the waves drains away to nothing…because to do so would make him unhappy.

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was originally over 12,000 words. I cut it in half, not because of the length, but because I was cramming too many events into one. It paces better as two. That said, next chapter is mostly written. Hopefully you'll get it soon.  
**

 **The 'Rock of Ages' was a reference to Wind Waker.**

 **Since Ghirahim's name is said to have meanings in both Arabic and Sanskrit, I've decided to implement similar names for the other demons/fae. Indua's name is derived from Sanskrit's _Indu_ , meaning 'bright drop' and is another name for the moon. She's designed after the Luna moth.**

 **Thanks so much for your words of support and advice, or just stopping to say how you like it or don't.**


	25. wolf's bane

**A/N: Health issues delayed this. It's been a little over a week, but still, I'm sorry.**

 **Thank you** **Voidlash,** **Mokki Takashi,** **Moon ninja Luna,** **Alter Ego Bob,** **bluebadger (** You will get more! ^_^ I'm happy you like it. **),** **A pal (** I try to catch typos, but my brain often auto-corrects it so the error doesn't register. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! **),** **MayBeADragon12,** **SortingHat (** Firstly, if you want to go on political tirades go to a political forum. This is a LOZ story. Not once were American politics mentioned here. Stay on topic. Second, Skyward Sword storyline combined with BOTW gameplay would have been perfect. That's how SS was planned originally. They canned it due to hardware limitations, but I suppose the budget/economy factored in too. Shame. Lastly, if you're going to call a chapter retarded, say why so I can fix/avoid it in the future. Learn how to give constructive criticism. Otherwise I won't give a second thought to what you say.) **,** **Luna M. Moon,** **autumn-lee-chan,** **whisperinwind87, and** **Kyoki no Megami for your reviews last chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter 25**

Rhombus panes herald our arrival to…

I gawk up at the massive doors of the castle, gape further still up to the stone gargoyles on the precipice of multiple rooftops and balustrades and spiked rails. Spanning further are the towers that reach into the rumbling gray clouds like fingers delving into the very sky.

We're at the front doors of the castle. I've never seen it from the outside like this.

Glancing behind me, I see the secondary wall that would open out onto the land beyond the castle grounds. We stand in the courtyard between the two.

Ghirahim gasps beside me. "Well, it would seem…" He pauses for breath. "I've miscalculated."

I eye him. "Are you—?" _Okay?_ I'm about to ask, but then I think better of it. He'd take it as a slight to his pride. Lamely, I finish: "Tired…?"

The dark crackle in his eyes confirms my reservations. "We've just been out from dawn to dusk throwing my magic left and right. No, I'm not tired. I'm fine."

I tilt my head. "…I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."

He sighs. "Let's just go inside."

As we approach, the colossal Great Doors open, the black and gray veined metal creaking loud as drumrolls of thunder. They swing inward, revealing a pronounced hall of brown tiled stone and center lined with scarlet carpet. Sconces the size of satellites flare to life with bursts of roaring fire, lighting row by row, all the way down the seemingly never-ending hall. Their eruptions of heat rend the chilled air.

Ghirahim sighs again and takes my hand. "Upstairs," he whispers, leading me to a grand curving stairway hidden partially behind the wall.

I follow quietly, not saying what I want to say. He's tired. How could he expect not to be? He's been teleporting us everywhere, taking us places faster than any train, plane, or automobile could go. I want to tell him such, to ease the burden of his misplaced pride, but then I'd have to go on explaining just what those vehicles are, and expand more on the world from which they come.

He's going slower than usual. The way is straightforward and the halls aren't changing or shifting as they used to seem to do. Astonished, I realize I could trace my way back to the Great Doors if I so chose.

Soon we are at the halls of beige stone and colored glass. It is at the end of those corridors where Ghirahim's apartments lie.

"Mm, bath can wait." Ghirahim stumbles past the sofas we spent so much time researching books on. "I need…" He pauses, lurches towards his bedroom. "I need to…see to something. You go ahead to the bath—you need it."

Blankly I stare after him. He can't even admit he needs to lie down. "Sure, Master."

His bedroom door clicks shut, and I'm left to tend to myself.

Making my way to the bathroom, a wave of dizziness overcomes me. I drank and ate nothing all day, not because I couldn't but because I refused to run the risk of needing to relive myself anywhere near Ghirahim. He wouldn't have been far from me, and I couldn't stand that. But what little I did drink before we left is enough to spurn me now. I waddle to the toilet, briefly wondering why a sword spirit even has one. Does he function as a human would?

I shake my head, cringing at the direction of my thoughts. The things I wonder, but will never ask.

After struggling out of my dress I climb the two stepped dais and sink into the inlaid marble bath. The warm water encompasses my aching muscles, warmth seeping into skin and down to bone. I sigh. Though I'm loath to move, I force myself to soap up and scrub clean. Get it over with so I can spend the rest of my time lazing. As I let a subtle current, which must be a filtration system—yes, it is, I see the narrow slits lining the bottom edges of the marble—lull my pains away, I think over the day's events. I wasn't the one teleporting. I wasn't the one leaping mountains or getting tossed off cliffs. That was Ghirahim. He even carried me occasionally, when he became impatient. Still I feel like I've been run over and forced into a marathon. Today was the most I've moved…ever, I think.

But then, fighting that Taliticus would wear anyone out, cliff diving or not.

I stand and the room sways. I wade over to the curtain of water falling from the granite slab and open my mouth to the surprisingly cool flow. After sucking down the much needed hydration, I lazily swing a leg through the water of the tub, the stillness turning into ripples. How can it be warm when its source is not? Then I feel it: the heat pushing up through the soles of my feet. The tub itself is heating the water, though I don't know how. Is there a furnace below the floor?

I squint at a line of inscriptions made into the marble just below the water level. Ever so slightly they glow, a faint pale green against the white stone. Is it a spell…?

My eyes glaze over, mind getting lost somewhere between my head and the rippling water. So many things I don't know... After today, that's become clearer than ever. To think this world has so many mysteries and wonders, the likes of which more than I could dream of. How did I not see it before?

 _Because I was either stuck on a cloud, or trapped in a tower,_ I answer myself, frown creasing my face. I think of my life, of the one that was lived and the one I'm living now. I've always been stuck or trapped. In a gray, uncaring city, in an empty home filled with unanswered phones; on a too perfect island in a too perfect sky, and below in a cold, drafty tower. And now I wonder…where exactly am I going to end up?

For the first time in a long time, I wonder about my future. In this world. Instead of always longing for what once was.

I finish up in the bathing room, going through motions with a head fuzzed with other matters.

I pause in the hallway to stare at Ghirahim's door, pondering about him, about what he will do with me when all is said and done, before moving on to the room he'd given me.

My dress is laid out over a chair as carefully as it was picked up, as if it were made with glass and not steely Skulltula silk. Stepping back, I look it over. Not a stain or tear mars it, despite what it had gone through with me. All those enchantments Ghirahim placed worked.

The hair clip is safely on the vanity top. Nightgown changed into. I'm settling down in the quiet dim, pulling the sheets over my legs, when a knock sounds from the door. I look at it questioningly. Is he up already?

A small voice comes from the other side. "H-hello…?"

Okay. Definitely not Ghirahim.

"Hi, Essil."

The Lizalfos cracks open the door, poking her snout into the room. She backs in a moment later with a small tray of tea and sandwiches.

"Oh, you don't have to…" I stop. How many times have I told her she doesn't have to fuss over me? She doesn't listen.

Essil places the tray on the bedside table, her purple scales shining darkly in the candles' glow. She clatters with the ceramic lids of the cream and sugar, and the silver spoon she sticks into the sugar bowl trembles in her grip.

I eye her warily. "Are…you okay?"

She starts, bumping the table with her knee. Her orangey eyes are large, her frilled quill flattened against her head. "I'm f-fine."

My brow furrows. "You don't seem it."

She ignores me, plops a spoonful of sugar into a teacup and stirs absently…with no tea.

"Er, here." Reaching over, I take the small pot and pour the steaming auburn liquid into the cup. "You drink it—you look like you need it more. I already brushed my teeth, anyway."

She does so without stuttering a protest—extremely unusual for her—sipping from the cup with wide eyes that do not leave the wall.

I put the pot down on the tray with a click. "All right, seriously, what's going on? You have to tell me now. I'll think about it all night otherwise."

Essil stares into her tea.

"I won't be able to sleep," I insist, though in truth I feel like I could pass out any moment. "Seriously, tell me."

"Oh," she starts, "they—they're saying such terrible things."

"Who? What are they saying?"

Essil shifts her eyes left to right, as if there might be someone hiding in the corners of the room. "There are groups of Lizalfos speaking of…"

I sit up straighter. "Yeah?"

Her gaze lingers on me, then drops to the floor.

"Look, if they're messing with you, I'll do something about it. I'll..." I trail off. The heck am I gonna do? "…stab them, or something."

A smile jumps at the corners of her snout, but it falls quickly and she shakes her head. "It is not me they speak ill of." Her shoulders hunch and her head dips. "It is you."

I blink. "Okay."

Her stature snaps straight, apricot-colored quill rising slightly. "No, it is n-not okay," she says, voice strained. "If you only knew what comes out of their foul mouths! I—I tried to correct them, but they only grumbled louder."

I shrug and snort. "Let them say what they want about me. I don't care."

"I do," Essil says so quietly I almost miss it.

I shift uncomfortably. A choking feeling travels from my chest up my throat. I'm touched by her concern, but don't want to show it. Though her head has once again dipped with submission, I catch glances of her sorrowful eyes—because suddenly I can't look at her straight on. I clench my teeth and minutely shake my head. Someone cares about me and I get all awkward about it. It's ridiculous. I look her in the eye. "Thank you, but, really, it's okay."

It is then I see the sheen of fear in her stare. It is sharp and painfully aware. "You do not understand. They whisper of a filthy human stinking up their castle, a human that deserves—"

"Nothing," a voice cuts into the conversation.

Essil and I turn our heads.

Shii stands in the doorway, back straight and arms across her lithe yellowed chest. The green scales of her back nearly blend into the shadows. The feathery hair-like crest atop her head is neither flatted nor raised, merely held at a half-cocked nonchalance. Unlike Essil, who is reminding me of the moment I first met her, back when she was cowering under a table hoping for an end to conflict and pain, Shii looks collected.

"Nothing is happening. Essil, you should know better than to spread rumors."

"It is not rumors," Essil says pleadingly. "It is—"

" _Nothing_ ," Shii stresses, her yellow eyes narrowing to slits, "I cannot curb. The discord among the squadrons will be dealt with. Order will be maintained. Nothing will occur."

A feeling of dread pricks at me. "Um, discord?" _How serious is this?_

"May we at least inform lord Ghirahim what is being said?" Essil presses.

Shii's maw contorts in a scowl. "I will not bother our lord with the trouble of petty squabbles and loose tongues. Do you think I cannot do my duty? I thought you had more faith in me than that."

Essil curls in on herself, head bent, shoulders hunched, her claws clasped together. She stares at the floor in shame. "That's not…what I meant."

"Hey," I interject for the crestfallen Lizalfos, "maybe she has a point, maybe…" I squeeze my eyes and shake my head. I'm so tired; my brain doesn't want to work. "What _exactly_ is going on again?"

"Do not be concerned, human." Shii locks stares with me. "It is nothing I cannot handle. Come Essil. She needs sleep."

I open my mouth to protest, but Shii warns me with a sour look. I'm not going to get anything more from her, no matter how I ask. I sigh, and lean back against the pillows. "Thanks for the sandwiches," I mutter.

Essil nods and, without raising her head, follows Shii out. As Shii holds the door for her meek companion, I notice the difference in their size. Essil is bigger and boxier than Shii, who is slim and narrow. Odd, that the smaller would be the stronger.

The door shuts gently behind them.

The strange altercation leaves me disturbed. Essil's worry, though not uncommon, seemed genuine. And Shii's stony reticence didn't instill reassurance. The Lizalfos of the castle are having disagreements—about me being here, apparently—but that's all I got.

… _Are the disagreeing Lizalfos going to try to do something about me?_ The thought flits through my mind just as I teeter on the precipice of sleep. I think of the tunnel between Ghirahim's room and mine, of its black stretch and cobwebbed stones. A servant tunnel. Or an escape tunnel. But what could let me out could just as well let others in.

 _I should…lock…my door…_ I think it, but it never gets put into action. Uneasiness is drowned by exhaustion. I don't know when my eyes shut, or when my spinning mind ceases its carousel ride. Only that it did.

The soft click of a door carefully opening and closing is what wakes me sometime in the night. My ears perk at the sound, but my mind remains in the bounds of sleep. Somewhere, in the back where my instincts stir, comes vague worry. I'm not alone.

The whisper of the sheets being peeled back, the dip of the mattress as another weight joins mine, the silk sliding on my bare shoulder as the covers are readjusted—each action tugs me further out of sleep until I lie awake, not daring to move in a grip of sudden fear.

Someone's gotten in the bed with me.

Who is it? My thoughts try to process. Then the fog of fatigue lifts with a slap of lucidity. Who else would it be? One of the Lizalfos talking crap about me? Essil or Shii? There's only one person in this castle who would be so bold.

"Mas'ser?" I whisper in a sleepy slur.

I shouldn't be relieved. I really shouldn't.

He slides right up to me, lays his arm over my waist. "The door wasn't locked," he says.

I scrunch my brow over eyes I haven't bothered to open. What does that have to do with…? Then it comes back to me. I control the lock. "I keep for…" _Forgetting to lock it_ , I'm about to say. But when I register the muscled chest at my back and the comforting dip of another weight beside mine…I fear he'll take it the wrong way and leave. And I don't want him to.

 _What were you thinking?_ I'll ask myself in the morning. But now, in the drowsy glow of dimmed candlelight, it is so easy to not think at all and simply drift…

The dream I have is of snow fluttering among steel skyscrapers. I stand in the middle of an empty street, listening, waiting, for what I don't know. I close my eyes and tilt my face skyward, feel the chilled kisses of winter. The dream is so real I can smell it, steel and snow, beside me, all around me. The sun filters through the clouds, light bleeding through my eyelids…

I guess I really am a prophetess. Because in morning's glare, _What were you thinking?_ is exactly what I ask myself.

My waking thoughts are slow to process, but once they do—once the extra heat and presence sinks in—my eyes pop wide open. My breath hitches and I stiffen. His heavy thigh is draped over my legs, his arms curled around my waist. His soft breaths puff in the crook of my neck, where his face rests just millimeters from my skin.

The air in my lungs turns to cement and my limbs become wood. For a while I don't breathe, for a while I don't think, let alone move a muscle. A span of frozen panic, the kind that incites a ringing in the ears, stays too long and leaves too soon.

I relax. The gentle rise and fall of his chest attests to his sleep, and the situation isn't as bad as I first thought.

A centimeter is all I risk when turning my head. I strain my eyes to roll as far as they'll go in my sockets to get a look at him.

He must have bathed sometime during the night; there's not a speck of dirt on him and he smells of silver and clean snow. His eyes are kind when closed. His lips are gentle when not pulled in a sneer or twisted in a mocking smile. The expression of his face is serene, and more human than I've ever seen. I actually find it hard to tear my stare away from him.

Attempting to free myself is out of the question. Just wriggling my hips causes him to stir and sigh. The heavy leg across mine curls and hooks, pulling me ever so closer. All I can do is wait for him to wake.

But waking up with him feels…weird.

If I could just get his arm off me, I could shimmy up from his leg and escape across the pillows.

I go to lift the arm clutching my waist—the other one I'm lying on—only to find it as heavy and unyielding as his leg. My attempt to pull it tightens the hold.

He sighs again and scoots closer. I expect him to be awake now, but a check of his breathing and an uneventful wait prove otherwise.

The sheet has slipped from his shoulder, pooling along the contour of his arm. He's not wearing gloves. I stare at his hands in wonderment. I've never really seen them bare and up close.

Even his hand is…perfect. The bastard.

His flawlessness is reminiscent of a Grecian marble statue. Smooth hairless skin, clear gleaming nails. I reach for the strong bones showing in the back of his hand and trace them up to his knuckles, marveling at the slight outline of colorless veins along the way. With new clarity I recognize I have no idea how he was made or how he works.

Yes, just like a marble statue. With the translucent sheen that particular stone provides, so close to human skin in appearance, shaped into a realism only the masters of the Renaissance could achieve.

But he's not a statue, and that makes him all the more incredible. Unlike stone, Ghirahim's skin gives when pressed, is supple and soft when stroked. The only difference I feel is the impenetrableness—I push my nail in and it doesn't leave so much as an impression.

The skin not warmed by mine is cool to the touch. I'm tracing from his knuckles and up his fingers when his hand rises, slowly like its afraid it'll chase mine away, and the pads of our fingertips meet.

Now that he's awake, I have the freedom to move.

He peers at me from half-hooded eyes, a lazy smile shaping his snowy lips. "Morning, darling." His voice is thick and deep with sleep.

"No one's allowed to wake up with a face full of perfect makeup," I mutter.

He chuckles, the gentle rumble reverberating through his chest into me.

I want to ask him what possessed him to get into my bed, but the words get stuck half-way up my throat. I clear it. Then I remember I didn't exactly protest, either. "Um… Good morning, Master." Suddenly I'm polite. It helps abates the weirdness of the situation.

"You looked so fascinated just now. Are you awed just from the beauty of my extremities? You should see the rest of me."

I choke on my own spit.

His laughter merges into a relieved moan as he stretches, lifting his arm and leg in the process. I scramble from the sheets and stand before the flower-glass window where morning's soft light phases in, smoothing my nightgown down frantically.

"Mmm." He settles back down. "You're right, we should get started on the day."

But then he just lies there, playing with a lock of his hair. Looking at me with those dark hooded eyes.

I stand rigid like I'm ready to pounce out the window.

He bites his lip, smiling a secret smile I can't understand. "You really are so very soft and warm, little bird. It's such a comfort."

"Why'd you get in bed with me?" I ask, suddenly perturbed.

"I just told you. And besides, why not?" He arches his spine in another stretch. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands.

He's stark naked.

I slam my eyelids shut. He faced away from me, towards the door, and in the instant the cream sheets fell from him I saw all of his backside. His ever-so-slightly tousled hair, his broad but sleek shoulders, the corded muscles running down his back, fanning from the groove of his spine, and…

I slap my hands over my closed lids, trying to banish the picture my mind took. I didn't close my eyes fast enough. The sight of him is burned into my retinas.

…The two dimples indented in his lower back, just above the curve of his tight, compact ass.

" _Agh, Gawd!_ "

"What?" he asks so innocently.

" _Where are your clothes?!_ "

"Hm? Oh, I don't wear any to bed. Too stuffy."

I sputter incoherently, averting my head to the side as an added barrier in addition to my hands and eyelids.

"What's wrong with you?" Amusement shakes his tone. "Ah, that's right. The nude form bothers you. Such strange human customs. Tell me, are humans offended by their own bodies, or just that of others?"

I stare into the saving blackness, teeth gritting. "It's just common decency, dude."

The quiet of his footsteps scarcely murmurs of his approach around the bed, going silent on the scarlet rug, and whispering again on the stone tile.

Blindly, I back up to the window.

He's in front of me. I know it.

He breathes into my ear. " _Flustered?_ "

I stiffen, breath hitching.

He leans closer, his smile felt against my ear's shell. "Open your eyes, Kya."

I've pressed myself completely against the glass.

"Kya…"

"No."

He takes my wrists and pries them from my eyes. "Open." It is a hard command now.

I tilt my face up to where I think his face will be and obey.

He's smiling again, and damn my eyes, they flicker down—

He's dressed. The form-fitting suit, the golden red jeweled sash around his hips, the gold arm band snug over his right bicep. Even the blue diamond swinging from his earlobe. All he's missing is the cape.

"What are you, magic?" I blink. "Oh wait…"

His grin widens, reveals gleaming teeth. "You're a riot, darling. Get dressed. I'll see you out in the main hall for breakfast."

He leaves me standing at the windows. My heart hammers long after he goes.

As I move around getting ready, I swipe a hand over each burning cheek. Stupid Ghirahim. He riles me on purpose, teasing and laughing and…it feels good, in a way. It's been so long since someone's been antagonistically playful with me. Nikki was the only one who played like a wolf and rested like a sheep.

A new wave of heat hits my face as the image of Ghirahim's backside comes back to haunt me.

But she never played like _that!_

…Or was it play at all?

The echo of his laughter, now long gone, suddenly taunts me with derision. What was first taken as friendly, albeit inappropriate, play becomes mocking jibes, a bitter taunt to what he sees as a lesser creature. Was his laugh teasing or rancorous? I can no longer tell—Or did I ever know?

I snap drawers open and slam them closed. I yank on a pair of underwear that appeared in the armoire with the rest. I don't know who put them there, or where they came from.

Realizing I was sleeping without underwear and he was naked, I shudder. But there was never anything to worry about, was there.

Abruptly Indua comes to mind, with her thick, luscious hair and immaculate, iridescent skin. Compared to her, I'm imperfection incarnate.

It doesn't matter what his sexuality is or isn't, he'd never look at me that way. And I'm relieved by that fact. Really, I am.

I slip into my dress, pull on the silver slippers. Looking into the mirror, imperfection is all I see. Thin hair, dull eyes. Ruddy skin, mottled with pinks and bluish veins, with a red snake-like impression on my neck left by the edge of the covers. Plain features so unremarkable you could put the dots of acne from my previous life back on my face and I still wouldn't turn any heads. Not even from ugliness. Definitely never from beauty.

Beautiful. The word itself feels a bitter mockery in my mouth. I've seen others clothed in it, but never myself. And, really, I've hardly cared before.

But now…

I rip my hair back into its golden clip. I don't bother brushing it—wouldn't matter if I did, so why make the effort?

Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be pretty. And in my head I find my thoughts trying on that nymph's skin, her hair, her…prettiness.

My jaw tightens, grinds my teeth.

With a strike of rationality, I hear Ghirahim's laughter for what it really was: mockery. He wouldn't do it for any other reason but for flaunting what I could never have.

… _And don't want_ , I tell myself vehemently.

It would be nice to be pretty, sure, but if it would cost me to become as insufferable as that _demon_ then forget it.

Not worth it.

He and Indua can have their beauty. On the inside they rot.

And yet…

I can't seem to forget about that stupid nymph. Neither her nor her possible _communions_.

* * *

It splits the sun in two, this massive shadow of mountain in the distance. It looms high, its jagged peaks and slopes seeming to take a bite out of the sky.

There's something foreboding about it. Ominous.

Naturally, we're heading right towards it.

"There it is, darling. The Monolisk Mountain, also known as the Jaayanof. It holds great significance among demon kind."

Ghirahim's excited, has been so all day. After an awkward impromptu breakfast at the tea table in the main room, where I tried to eat and chew when he wasn't looking (an almost impossible task), he informed me of his conviction that I would have a vision soon. Perhaps it would be sparked by the majesty of the odious mountain, and if not, oh well. He expressed his desire of me seeing it regardless.

"It's inherently important to us," he tells me as we walk along tall grasses and jaggedy rocks. "It stands as a symbol of our power and freedom."

I nod, hardly understanding. It makes sense they'd chose such a vicious looking mountain. The _why_ is unclear.

We've been traveling since dawn, winding our way here and there—anywhere Ghirahim thinks Hylia may have plotted—making our way to the mountain. I saw more demons and dark fae in that time. Like yesterday, Ghirahim kept me under his cape, an invisibility spell woven around me. Few caught sight of Ghirahim, but those that did saw him as if he were out walking alone. Quickly they did the odd bow I had seen Indua perform: crossing their arms in an X across their chest and bending straight at the waist. Some didn't, but they were too busy scurrying away in fear.

"Why do they bow like that?" I whispered.

"To show respect, of course. Crossing their arms in that manner means 'All that I am,' and followed by a bow it means 'All that I am bows before you.'"

"And if they don't bow?"

"That would signify a challenge. 'All that I am stands before you.' A fight to the death would ensue." He smiled darkly. "Very few have been so foolish as to challenge me."

Something niggled in the back of my mind: Displaced familiarity.

Now we walk in silence as I think of it.

I frown. "I've seen someone cross their arms like that before. You know, the bowing thing? Except they weren't bowing."

"And pray tell where that could have been? Greater demons and moderately powerful fae are more likely to perform the action. Those beneath simply run or cower. Indua was the first greater you'd seen." He stops in his tracks, forcing me to do the same. "Wasn't she?"

I sense the hard edge of his apprehension. Who else has seen me?

I scrunch my brow in thought. "I didn't see it in person."

"A vision? Well, who was it?"

"It was… I dunno." We walk a few paces before it comes to me. My face goes slack as the memory reveals itself—of Ghirahim standing tall and strong as iron in his true form, glaring down at Link before the final battle.

"You. It was you standing like that, un-bowing."

"Who was I challenging?"

"I don't know," I lie, fighting my expression into one of confusion. "I just saw you. You looked, uh…you looked like you were about to kick someone's ass."

He pinches me for the curse, but laughs nonetheless.

I'm glad he doesn't question further. I suppose he thinks it doesn't matter who or why he was challenging. To Ghirahim it would be like issuing an execution. No contest.

We arrive at the base of the mountain as the sun reaches its peak. Ghirahim teleported less today, to let me sightsee, he said. I know he's conserving magic, but I don't comment. With the giddy way he's showing me his world, both reasons ring true.

He lifts me in his arms and takes flight. From leap to stomach-clenching leap, we climb higher and higher. He lands on a whisper and sets me down to draw me into his cape, the invisibility spell cast, and leads me to the top of a drop-off.

So he wants me to see from the top. Or maybe he wants to push me off. I laugh inwardly at the thought.

But then my breath is pushed out of me.

"It's…" I choke.

Ghirahim smiles, spreading his arm in gesture to what lies below. "The Jaayanof."

Down, down, down goes the chasm whose precipice we stand. A cityscape, or something close to it, spreads throughout the entirety of the colossal crater. Homes and towers are carved from the circular cliffside, and even more towers stretch up from the deep, deep bottom. Stones taller than a hundred feet stack one atop the other, and columns made of solid stone—somehow carved and melded seamlessly together—make up the larger than life towers. Lights shine golden through thousands of windows. Burnt iron fixtures bend and conform to angles and decorative edges.

The city was made with magic, had to be. It's the only way these… _skyscrapers_ …could have been assembled. In this age. In this world.

Longing and homesickness churn.

Though primitive, this city is the closest I've come to seeing my world again. Where stone and tangled iron prevail, steel and concrete echo from a distant plane.

I shiver and blink away tears.

"Isn't it marvelous, darling?" He looks down upon the city with glowing pride. "This is where it all began, when we came from below the earth and took the surface for ourselves."

I gape once more into the hollow mountain. If I thought the jagged peaks looked like biting teeth before, I definitely think so now as I stand on the ledge gazing down into the great maw that brought forth the demons and monsters.

A damp wind blows skyward, fluttering Ghirahim's cape and my hair, prickling my arms and legs, smelling of rock and earth and… Fire. Smoke. Brimstone.

"Are we…going to go down there?" I ask, half fearing, half hoping.

"No, darling. Many greater demons live here. I'll get caught up in one social platitude to the next and I don't want you wandering and lost. Just look for now. Do you sense…anything?"

He ends lightly and I know he's hoping for a vision or something.

Dread climbs. I realize I hate to disappoint him.

"I remember…a vision I had a long time ago. It's nothing you don't know already."

"Tell me." He commands it. The hand on my shoulder tightens.

"It's blurry," I caution, thoughts scrambling for a way to tell the painted images preceding the game's beginning, silently freaking out for mentioning it at all. "Demise burst up from the earth. He was surrounded by…six? Six people. One of them kinda looked like you."

"It was me. My master, I, and his generals came up first—" Ghirahim's head turns sharply to the side, eyes narrowing. "Stay quiet. That's no request."

He drops his hand and assumes a natural pose. Surreptitiously he nudges me closer under his cape with his arm.

It creeps towards us, glimpses of it stolen from between the split craggy rocks. As it emerges in the open I stifle my gasp. Two-legged and upright, but with too many long, spindly arms. Its skin is the shade of a corpse's, pale and almost purplish. Its eyes—six of them—are shiny and fully black, the largest being near the dual slits it has for a nose, and the smallest near its temples, partially hidden in scraggly black hair. The scraps of cloth it wears are white. White and oddly fine, like a spider's silk.

I blink stupidly.

Well, that explains the arms.

Ghirahim addresses the strange creature. "What do you want, Skulltera? Shouldn't you be down in the caverns with your Skulltula wards like the rest of your kin?"

"Came up for air…Lord Ghirahim." Its voice is whispery and its words garbled. "Came up for air and…smelled something. Something that hasn't been smelled for…centuries."

Ghirahim scoffs. "I didn't come out here to be bothered by your nonsense. Leave me."

"Human. It is…human I smell."

Ghirahim's frown turns ugly. "Those pitiful holes you call a nose couldn't distinguish food from dung. Be gone with you!"

The spider demon creeps ever closer. "Human, human… We haven't had human in such a _long_ time."

"You seem to be hard of hearing." Ghirahim looks around the empty cliffside. A smirk quirks his mouth. "Hm, you know what? No one will miss you."

His hand suddenly clasps over my eyes, and it's through sound alone I'm made aware of the killing. The sudden jerk of Ghirahim's body precedes it, muscles shifting, followed by the fleshy thud and roll—and then the larger thud of the body.

One of us is shaking. It's me.

The snap of fingers clicks in the air. My nausea doubles as the teleportation yanks and contorts my very being.

We reappear at lower altitude. The breeze trails a hint of icy claws over my exposed skin, disappearing under my dress.

Ghirahim removes his hand and blessed sight is returned to me. Immediately I come alive.

"What was that." No question. I know. I just want to know why.

"What was what?" He feigns innocence, his bloodied sword dispersing.

"W-why couldn't you just punch…it…in the face and knock it down a few ledges?"

He shrugs, as if the whole thing is inconsequential. "It was necessary. She stuck her nose where it didn't belong and defied me when I gave her the chance to leave. I wasn't going to tolerate it."

My mouth works but my scrambled brain refuses to produce.

He moves down the slope we're on. It looks like we're on the opposite side we came from. "Whatever your objections, come along. We have Gates to find, things to do… Do you have any more _old_ visions I should know about?" He sees me shaking my head. "You better not be lying to me, little bird."

"I'm not." _I am._

We walk on. I keep a good distance behind him.

Frustrated and nervous, I blurt, "Do you have to be such a sadist?"

"Why shouldn't I be? It signifies strength. It is a very desirable trait among my kind."

I mutter, "Not among mine."

He tosses a glare over his shoulder, silvery hair flashing too dark eyes.

We walk silently for some time and I conclude the conversation's over. But then…

"Your kind," he says into the quiet between us, "are beyond weak."

He doesn't look back at me when he says it. There is no bite to his voice. It was said with quiet contempt—a fact laid flat.

It has me spitting mad.

Heat races up my neck despite the cold, floods my face and ears, and it's all I can do not to screech curses. I keep a lid on it, because a fit would do nothing but prove him right. Throwing words is all I could do. There's nothing to back it up.

It doesn't stop me from stewing silently. _Stupid, needlessly kill-happy…!_ For a split second I think to bring Link to humanity's defense, only to realize Link has only faced Ghirahim in direct battle once…and he walked away only because he was allowed to. Link lives because Ghirahim hasn't bothered to kill him. And he could do so. At any time. At least until the true Master Sword is complete, and even then…

The thought has me shaking from more than just anger.

 _What am I going to do?_

The terrain gives way to a rough landscape. Frosted brambles grasp my ankles and calves. Patches of snow look like blots erased from the earth's canvas of dried, crunching grass.

We keep walking in silence. Twice Ghirahim stops and surveys the area, tense like there's something out there he doesn't want to deal with. We teleport, and again he stands stiff, face divulging chagrin. He says something in the demon dialect that sounds particularly nasty.

I sidle up next to him. "What is it?"

"…My forgetfulness gets the best of me at times. The invisibility spell deceives sight, muffles sound, and I'm one of the rare few who can sense auras, but…" A muscle flexes in his jaw; he's grinding his teeth, like he's hating what he's about to admit. "I didn't take scent into account."

I look up at him in confusion mixed with dread and a little derision. "Spider's dead. You made sure of that."

He's about to answer me, but stops and focuses on the boulders and thick brambles in the distance.

"They've followed." Ghirahim wrinkles his nose. "Of all the rotten luck."

"What?"

"You might as well come out," he calls to the seemingly empty tundra. To me he says: "Kya, stand still."

Wolves skulk out from the thickets.

No, wait.

I squint at the familiar-looking beasts, at their black and gray fur, their larger forelegs and massive claws, their fangs protruding past their lower jaws, and their eerily glowing eyes…

 _Not wolves._

 _Wolfos._

"And where is your alpha." Ghirahim sneers. "Balak, I can sense you. Don't bother hiding."

It is then a group of people, or what seems to be people, emerge from between the boulders and brambles. There are seven in total and they are clothed in furs and leathers, the hair atop their heads thick and wild. Some carry iron axes roughly hammered to wooden handles; others carry double-edged swords made with the same crude quality.

Their narrowed eyes glint at us with malice and distrust.

A tall man shoulders his way to the front of the small group. Sable fur makes up his attire: the coat being long, the tails of which are thick and gathered in such a way I think they might really be the tails of a wolf. His dark hair meets his forehead in a widow's peak, and below that are yellow eyes fixated and blazing with hate. "Who's hiding? Did I hide from you last time, Ghirahim?"

Ghirahim huffs a laugh. "No, if I recall correctly you were too busy running."

The man, who I assume is Balak, snarls, showcasing a single long pointed canine and… What happened to the other one? Looking closer at his teeth, I notice they're all mostly chipped and cracked. The other canine is broken off at his gum line.

"Did I hit a soft spot? You're always running, Balak, and yet you walk around with such pomp in your stride. Does the fact I've never deemed you important enough to chase rile you? How ungrateful you are. You should be praising the dirt and trees you worship I couldn't care less for you." Ghirahim smiles darkly. "It's the only reason you still live."

"You're an arrogant bastard, Ghirahim. I'll make you pay for what you did to me."

Ghirahim raises his brows. "Frankly, you did that to yourself. I don't recall forcing you to bite me."

Understanding clicks as I weigh between the broken teeth of the Wolfos' alpha and their exchanged words. The result has me imagining the furred idiot trying to sink his fangs into the great black sword that is Ghirahim.

I scoff breathlessly.

Balak zips his glare to me, cocking his head with a sneer. "Something funny?"

And…I don't know. Maybe it's the malicious river running through my heart, or maybe because his amber eyes make me nervous. Laughter breaks through me. "You broke your teeth trying to bite him! That's—that's—" _Hilarious._

I don't finish the sentence, instead inching closer to Ghirahim like the little weenie I am, twittering all the while.

Those yellow eyes flash with violence. "You little bi…!" His face switches from wrath to fascination, his nostrils quivering. "You're the human." Laughter bubbles up from his mouth, a deep and intimidating rumble. "I gotta admit, when my old friend here"—he jabs a thumb in the direction of a grizzled and graying Wolfos standing among the pack—"told me he smelled a human, I couldn't believe him. But he insisted. And now here we are. Tell me, Ghirahim, what are you doing with a human?"

"Who I take as a slave is my business. Don't you have somewhere else to be? Some carrion to chew on? Some den to piss in?"

My momentary surprise at his curse is overridden by Balak's next action.

He licks his lips in a hungry fashion, asking, "Are there more?"

"There's one wearing an idiotic green hat out somewhere. Go pester him."

"Nah." Balak swings his heavy arms back and forth, like he's warming up for some exercise. "We'll take this one."

Ghirahim smiles slowly and lowers his chin, but his stare remains locked on Balak, the light in his eyes darkening to odious levels. "You can try."

Everything moves at once.

The Wolfos dash in first while the humanoids circle.

The quadrupeds skid to a halt ten to fifteen feet before us, their salivating jaws snarling and snapping at the air in a threatening display.

"What lovely sets of fangs." Ghirahim's two obsidian swords materialize in black diamond spritz. He holds them up menacingly. "Come here, and I'll show you mine."

One lunges in a great leap, and then another, and another.

With a single wide swinging arc of Ghirahim's sword the once weedy but pristine cold land gets turned into a bloodbath. The more Wolfos close in, the more the patches of snow and dried grasses are tinged pink and splattered red. Ghirahim moves like a machine, disappearing and reappearing in flashing blinks, his dual swords flying in a deadly dance. Wolf heads roll, guts are spilled and entangle in the brambles, claws and teeth and limbs splinter right before my eyes.

My dagger is unsheathed, but none of them get close enough. Even those who rush around to our backs are dealt with in a diamond flash and a swift slice.

I watch in a haze of disbelief. The slaughter and the hysteria buzzing through my cerebral cortex fuels it. The dagger shivers in my grip, yet I remain taut and ready to attack or defend.

There are only a few Wolfos left.

The humanoids glance to Balak for a signal, their swords and axes ready despite their unsure and nervous gazes.

Standing the furthest from Ghirahim, Balak gives the nod.

"Are you not going to instigate me yourself?" Ghirahim smirks. "Not very 'mighty,' are you, Balak?"

The humanoid demons advance. With crackling growls and spitting snarls and echoing war cries they all blast in, focused on Ghirahim.

Tears spring to my eyes, blurring the field of gore, of screeching pain and fear, of warring bellows turned to begs and pleas once they realize they can't hurt him. They can't scratch him. They can't even make him flinch.

And they can't make him stop.

One Wolfos warrior is cleaved from shoulder to hip while trying to flee, his face frozen in abject horror when he falls to the ground—dead.

Inside me, the ewe wants to bow her head and close her eyes against the massacre, to shut her ears as well and pretend it isn't happening— _how did it come to this, why is this transpiring, why, I don't want—_ but standing beside her is the wolf of my own spirit. She is stiff backed with hackles raised, her rumbling growl warning the ewe not to let her guard down against this aggressing pack. _Stand your ground,_ she says. _Prepare your horns._ And the ewe does. She stands with the she-wolf, ready to ram down steel if she has to.

The gentleness, which assures my humanity, and viciousness, assuring my survival, in my heart entwine.

It's the reason I see the attack coming. With Ghirahim's straight sword in the gut of one Wolfos warrior and his sabre skewering the skull of another, a female warrior breaks rank and flies through to me. Her amber irises are bright and shining, her cheeks streaked with tears of fury. Her axe flashes along with her long canines, the blade coming for me in a horizontal strike.

I fall into a crouch, the axe whizzing above my head, and just as quickly I lunge in an upward jab with the dagger. The survivalist she-wolf aims for the throat, and the resolute ewe does not argue, but the demoness jerks back in the nick of time and I slice only her cheek.

The demoness is a better fighter than me, because in the same movement of her dodge she repositioned her axe for another swipe, bringing it down—

Black blades rain, appearing from nowhere and disappearing to nowhere after striking the ground—or a body.

One such blade catches the demoness in her axe shoulder, making her falter and allowing me to stagger away. In the next moment she is grabbed from behind by a pair of black shining arms. A hand slaps on her waist and over her mouth. Ghirahim, streaked with the promises of his true form, spins her around so his back is to me. A loud, sickening crack follows and the female's head flops over. Ghirahim tosses her aside like a used tissue, her untamed blonde and brown hair splaying on the wet earth.

I truly wish it were rainwater seeping into her mane.

When I raise my head I realize it's over.

He's killed every single one.

Except for…

"Damn him! Damn that filthy mongrel!" Ghirahim spins slowly, dowsing for Balak. "He must have run shortly after issuing the order for attack."

Shocked rage takes residence with horror, further spurning my shivering body. _How could he order his pack in and just_ leave _them?_

"Because he's a coward, darling. That's why. An arrogant, strutting coward with flapping gums and no gumption to back up his claims."

I look at Ghirahim in shock, not realizing I'd spoken aloud.

A scuffling sound comes from one of the bodies. A silver-haired male moans weakly, digging his fingers into the dirt like he's trying to drag himself away.

"Oh—" I choke on my voice, and do nothing as Ghirahim stalks over and thrusts his sword into the male's neck, severing the spinal connection to the brain. The male was in such bad shape, the swift kill was a mercy. Despite the pain in my heart, I let it happen.

Probably couldn't have stopped it if I wanted to.

There is a moment of stretching silence, interrupted only by the cold wind rolling over the landscape. The breeze makes the gore decorated brambles wave cheerfully like some sort of messed up horror show. It doesn't take away the overpowering smell of copper.

Ghirahim brings his blade to his mouth and with a reverence I can't understand slips his tongue out and slicks the blood into his mouth.

In spite of my numbed out brain I feel the power exchange occurring—like there are remainders of the various life forces in the blood left behind, and Ghirahim is the one absorbing it.

The red of his enemies draws a line down his chin and drips like a drop of rain to the earth. The glittering heat in his eyes couples with the heavy satisfaction shown on his face. He's gotten off on the violence, I realize. It's not surprising, but no less disturbing.

If it weren't for his protection I'd be dead. Yet… suddenly I can't stand to look at him.

I stare at the ground beneath my feet, and the clusters of frost glittering in the dry grass, untouched by the violent filth surrounding it.

"The next time I see him he'll be dead. This is the last time he gets away, mark my words."

His voice is deep with both satiation and vexation, and only serves to make me lower my head further. My toes. I can kinda see their shape through the silver slippers.

His footsteps crunch their way toward me, stopping in front of my feet. Mine are clean; his are not.

"Darling…" His tone is soft now. "It is the way of things. One day you will understand." More roughly, he says, "Are you all right?"

I give a singular nod and nothing more.

We stand opposite of each other, waiting. For what I don't know.

"…Your aura seems stable."

After he says that, I understand and remember the time after he forced me to slay the Bokoblin, how my aura flat lined and he rushed in to see if I was dead.

He raises his hand to cup my cheek. I flinch away from it.

It is red. His hand is red.

Slowly, he lowers it.

His cape, which had at some point in the battle dispersed, reforms over his outstretched arm. He wraps it around me, shielding my untouched form from the blood covering his. Then he picks me up and carries me away.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope my out-of-mind state didn't effect that last scene too badly.  
**

 _ **Jaya**_ **is Sanskrit for 'victory;conquest.' I added the 'a' and 'nof' to be reminiscent of Ganondorf.**

 _ **Bala**_ **is Sanskrit for 'mighty;strength.' Hence Ghirahim's 'Not very 'mighty,' are you?' line. Villains are required to be punny.**

 **Thank you all for the feedback. I enjoy reading your thoughts. And as for the rating...I have it scheduled to go up to M around chapter 32, but if you think it needs that beforehand, let me know.**

 **Thank you for reading!**


	26. what you eat

**A/N: I wrote the first part of this mostly lucid. The rest was written on DayQuil/NyQuil Severe. And antibiotics. Weee. I'm so sorry.  
**

 **Thank you Alter Ego Bob, thenumbertwentyseven (** Thank you for the numerous encouragement! **), Lunammoon, Mokki Takashi, Voidlash, Amaterasuxoxo, Bluebadger (** He forgets and remembers interchangably. Weirdo, indeed! I made up the bowing thing. It just seemed too significant in the cutscene to be nothing. **), Moon ninja Luna (** ^_^ More on that. **), A pal (** I love researching names and such. Thank you. **), Othaeryn, auroraskyewalker (** All he knows and believes, but we shall see what the future entails. **), Kyoki no Megami (** It's piling up more than even she realizes. **), Branded Lunacy (** Haha! XD **), Pineapple (** I like world-building. I'm glad you like it! **), Guest (** I've gotten multiple readers saying Kya was too unlikable in the first chapter. Thank you for your kind honesty. What you said is something I will be looking into. **), Cookie-koko, Guest, Guest, Guest, Guest (** I don't know who's who...I'll just thank you all. **), Spoogut, Scragglewaggle, fuutaba, Howlestva (** He is very difficult. Thank you! **), Othaeryn, Just A Fan, and everyone for all your support and advice and encouragement. I hope I didn't miss anyone. Please know all your words mean a great deal to me, you don't know how much.**

* * *

 **Chapter 26  
**

"You can't be serious."

Ghirahim arches a brow at me through the reflection of one of his many mirrors. "I'm perfectly serious. The last two times I took you with me proved near disastrous and absolutely nothing has triggered any visions for you. It's better if I go out alone."

"But I—"

"No 'Buts,' Kya. None. I won't hear it. You are staying here." He straightens the mantle cape over his shoulders before moving on to perfecting his make-up and hair. "It is safer for you."

I stand several paces behind him, arms crossed and eyes glaring in the full-length mirror. "I can handle myself fine. I did against those Wolfos, didn't I? Somewhat. Sort of. _What._ "

His quiet chuckling recedes. He swipes a finger at the purple shadow beneath his eyes, sculpting it to just the right slant. "You cut one of the females on the cheek. Congratulations. She would have killed you in the next heartbeat. I had to save you."

I hide my wince. "No, you didn't…"

His gaze flips to the ceiling. "Don't be a child."

I open my mouth to speak.

His firm reply is swift. "You are staying here. The matter is closed."

I snap my jaw shut, clench my teeth. "I'm not a child—and it's not like I burden you."

"You do, actually," he says with all the nonchalance of small talk, neglecting to notice how I flinch. "I must always look after you. It will be easier with just me." He runs his fingers through his sleek hair, angles his body to the side, and smiles at the resulting reflection with pure admiration.

Then he catches my mirror image.

"Oh, don't look like that, darling—so morose and dejected." He pouts in mockery.

The only effort I make to change my expression is glower.

He turns around and comes to me, taking my face in his hands. "Oh, my sweet, I—"

"I'm not your sweet," I say through gritted teeth.

He leans down until we're nose to nose, baring his teeth in a smile. "But you are. We'll do something fun when I return. Just the two of us. That will cheer you up."

The noise of protest in my throat goes unheeded.

He kisses my nose and steps away. "Ta-ta."

With a snap of his fingers he's gone, leaving me in the emptiness of his room.

The ticking clock, that imaginary sound I've kept in my head ever since the tower, resumes its tempo as I'm left waiting.

Waiting. Lingering. Yearning for something gone by.

My raging screech fills the glossy space, threads through the hanging silks, and slams into the walls of stone. There goes freedom, moans my writhing spirit. There goes adventure and exploration. Off beyond my reach. Now once again I am stuck—not on a rock in the sky, but a dark castle so tall it flirts with the clouds.

I picture the outside world, of its spanning glades and mountainous uprisings. I squeeze my eyes shut and see the glittering spray of the waterfalls, pitch my head back on my spine and remember the feel of the cooling mists and the touch of slippery smooth rock beneath my feet.

I open my eyes.

Gone. In a flare of rhombus panes. Gone.

Just like the person I've come to rely on and…

…And maybe enjoy adventuring with.

That last thought disturbs me so greatly I take a step back from it. As if it were a real, threatening presence looming before me, I turn and run for the door.

I slam face-first into Shii not five feet down the hall.

She doesn't even acknowledge the painful nose-to-snout collision. "What! What is it? I heard you scream!"

I blink watery eyes at her from over my hand-covered nose. "What?" I ask nasally, not understanding. Then her words sink in. "He left me," I reply. At her confusion, I expand, "He left without me. He left me behind. I wanted to go."

It didn't sound so childish until spoken aloud, and internally I cringe.

Shii's stern face confirms my self-condemnation. "You stupid human, I thought…" She shakes her head like she's trying to fervently loosen a nightmare from her brain. "Never mind what I thought. Such immaturity! Can you not entertain yourself? Or do you need me to make puppets dance for you as the hatchlings require?"

"I—" I stop. "Hatchlings?"

At this, Shii's green lids descend over her pale yellow eyes. She sighs. "Yes. Hatchlings. Tell me you did not think we popped up from the earth like flowers."

"No, no. It's just…I, uh, hadn't thought about it. But now that you mention it…without any males in your species, how…?"

Immediately Shii stiffens. "You know how! It should be obvious."

I stare blankly.

For the first time ever, I hear Shii stutter.

"It-! It happens when…the female is…is stim…stimulate…" A growl rumbles up her throat. "You know what? I am not having this conversation with you, human. You want the talk, then you talk to Essil."

With that, she turns on her heel and stalks away.

"I think I got the gist if it," I call after her, grinning because of her uncharacteristic fluster. "But thanks!"

"Entertain yourself!" she snaps back over the shoulder, disappearing into the main room and the halls beyond.

My smile drops as soon as a far-off door slams.

A teasing part of me was happy to see her flustered. At her departure, however, another part bows her head and sighs. Oh, it mourns, to sit and count the hours alone as I have always done. The rage of the other half soon follows that sentiment. I shake myself from both self-pity and anger. Both easy for me to fall into. Neither will help me.

I take to wandering what has become the living quarters of Ghirahim and me—no, I correct. Just his. To say it is ours is too strange, too…intimate. I'm a guest. Or a prisoner. Both. An 'enforced guest,' I decide, because 'prisoner' reminds me of iron bars and dank dungeons.

Thinking of dungeons leads me down the dusty road of _why_. Why I'm not down in the dungeon in chains. Why I'm not beaten bloodily for the information I hold. Why instead I'm living in cushioned luxury with the very man who should be torturing me, and so on.

No use in asking. I can't come up with any answers. At least none that make sense.

Walking from room to room, a sullenness blankets me. More wonderings with nonexistent replies. In Ghirahim's red silk room, my mind reaches back to when I first woke up in that big round bed, pained and confused, hearing Ghirahim demand I not die. Ambling to my room, I recall his face when he presented it to me. Composed yet with an undeniable eagerness that I should be pleased. Next, the bathing room, in which I'd been in just this morning, rushing to be clean and ready to go. I was excited. I was looking forward to (freedom, I say, and I must deny everything else) spending time with him (I can't, I can't say that, _don't say that_ ) only to be refused on the grounds of…what? Safety?

Does he realize what he sounds like? Does he realize what he's doing?

…And do I realize how I'm responding?

I trail my fingers over the tomes and scrolls lining the walls of the main room. I've helped him look through them. I've kept after him to get rest, subtly reminded him to eat and drink by announcing my need of those very things. His disappointment weighs on me. His happiness makes me feel feather-light. His well-being has become tied to my own.

Leaning over wearily, I grip a ledge of the built-in shelving. I confront the question that's been bubbling inside me.

When did I start _caring_ so much?

To walk the fine edge of loving your enemy, but not fall into the chasm. Tch. For all I know, I've already slipped, and am plummeting in a freefall. Or maybe I've got it wrong. Maybe it's not a drop-off, but a gradual decline.

Either way, I need to catch myself and maintain distance. I must grab hold of something and climb back up to reason and sensibility.

 _Guard your heart. Guard your heart._

The mantra beats around in my head until it's all I can hear. But too soon images of Ghirahim assault me. Of the way he smiled fondly after me as I ran the meadows. I can still feel him holding my hand and leading me carefully from the rocky plains the Taliticus inhabited. At the waterfalls he clucked at me not to fall in the rippling pools, and his barely concealed relief when I skittered over wet rocks to be back at his side…I didn't want to notice it. Just like I didn't want to notice how my heart warmed in response.

"Idiot," I grumble aloud. "Get ahold of yourself."

Oh, good. I'm talking to myself again.

I need to get out of these rooms.

With destination in mind, I swoop through the room until I find my translating parchment and, after tucking the paper down my bodice, I test the exit door to see if it's locked.

It isn't.

Looking both ways yields nothing but carved beige halls speckled with rainbowed light from the stained glass windows. The idea that I could just walk out sits wrong with me. Shii either forgot to lock the door, or by now she assumes I won't run. And she'd be half right. I wouldn't run to escape. I'd leave simply to go out and see all I can see.

I squint suspiciously down the wide halls before retreating to the rooms. But not to stay. Not wanting to run the risk of being stopped, I go to the spider-webbed corridor separating my room from Ghirahim's.

I wish I thought to bring a light. But then one of those little candles, nestled within indents in the walls, while luminous in their togetherness, wouldn't be anything but a spark in this darkness. So I walk blind, hand outstretched into the blackness. It isn't until I step through a half-built sticky web that I realize my foolishness. Spiderwebs mean spiders, and spiders in this world often mean Skulltulas.

Suddenly my hearing sharpens. Was that dust falling from the ceiling? Loose pebbles at my feet maybe? …Or a Skulltula scuttling towards me?

I tear into a sprint, mindless of anything but fear. Blindness is forgotten, and when I come to the first bend in the tunnel I slam into it. That doesn't stop me—I run with hands sliding along the roughhewn stone, following it down and around and around, panicking like cattle in a chute.

The fright ride stops when my palm slides in with a patch of stone and a hidden door slides open. I fly through it, come out into the light of a large fire crackling under a cauldron. A familiar stone table spans before me. An old brick oven simmers contentedly on the wood used to fuel its heat source. Pots and pans of iron and copper hang just about everywhere.

Essil blinks at me with wide eyes. She is still as a rock, poised with a rolling pin pressed into a slab of dough.

"Hey," I say casually, hands on my hips. Like I meant to come bursting out of the wall and this is business as usual. "What'cha doing there? Making pizza? We should. Make pizza, I mean."

Essil gapes like a fish. "W-what? How did you know about that door?"

"What door? Oh, that. Yeah. Kind of hard not to notice the tunnel, Essil. Wanted to know where it led. Led me here. So, like I thought, it's a servant tunnel. Appropriate that I should use it, right? I mean, I am a servant."

Her head shakes, the orange frill atop her head flattening. "Not like us. You are so much more—"

"So," I interject, because I don't like where she's going with that. "Pizza. Ever heard of it?"

As it turns out, she hadn't heard, and we end up on what I'd like to call a 'cooking adventure,' much like when we made spaghetti. I do my best to instruct on how it's supposed to be composed and Essil, with her expertise on edibles, fills in the blanks I cannot.

About an hour later, we pull a sizzling pizza from the brick oven.

"Well, it's not _Digiorno_ or _Dominos_ ," I say, "but close enough."

Actually, it turns out better than anything I've had before. Maybe it was Essil's touch, or maybe it was something of the ingredients from this world. Either way, when we both try a slice, our eyes simultaneously pop wide. Neither of us speaks. We can only chew silently for a few moments, letting the collective flavors wash over our tongues.

"This," Essil says after swallowing, "this is amazing! Where did you learn to make such—something so exquisite?"

"Somewhere," is my evasive reply. "And you did most of the work. I just gave directions."

"I must call Shii—she must try this!"

Essil runs out the usual entrance, returning shortly with a disgruntled Shii in her tracks.

"How did you get down here?" Shii barks. "I did not see you leave lord Ghirahim's wing."

"Tunnel," I say simply.

Shii's eyes narrow.

Essil interrupts what was no doubt going to be an interrogation. "Try this!" She shoves a cheese-strung melted slice up to Shii's snout.

Shii's lip curls in contempt, but she obligingly takes what Essil offers. Her disdain doesn't last past the first bite. In fact, she eats the whole thing before speaking. She wipes her mouth with her arm. "…The master will want this."

"Yes," Essil agrees solemnly, her claws fidgeting in her apron.

"But this—What did you call it?—pizza…was a test, correct?" Her eyes sharpen. "As a test, we must eat the whole thing. To deem its worthiness, that is. And make another for our lord."

Essil nods, her deep purple scales shining in the fire's glow. "Of course."

I watch the exchange with a smothered grin. "Just eat it, you dorks. No, no more for me, Essil, but thanks. I, uh…I think I'll go look around."

Shii immediately homes in on me. "Where do you plan to go?"

"Nowhere. Just around. Is that okay?" I ask with a hint of peevishness. "Or do I get to be locked away? In that case, which way's the dungeon?"

Shii seems to ignore me at first, taking the time to lick her claws clean. I wait impatiently, glaring all the while. Finally, she says, "Lord Ghirahim did not forbid you from exploring, and the castle is on lock-down besides. I suppose there will be no harm. But"—her gaze cuts into me—"in case anything should occur, I must be nearby. Do not leave this floor. Swear to it."

"Totally swear. Bye!" I'm out the kitchen before the last word leaves my mouth.

As I wander the adjoining halls, I wonder what she meant about the castle being on lock-down. I didn't think to ask why, too excited at being left to my own devices. But soon I come across evidence attesting to it. Locked doors. Halls barred off by transparent but unpassable magic. My journey through the castle reminds me more and more of the games I used to play. A secret chamber here, a hidden corridor there. They're all different, too. Some sections are bright with ceilings spanning so high I can't see the top, some are cramped and dark. Twisted metal makes up statues of beasts I barely recognize. Others are made from ceramic and are far more uniform.

 _It's like Ganon's castle_ , I think with mounting enthusiasm. _Find the Map. Find the Compass. Find the Boss Key._

I get so caught up in my expedition, I forget Shii's warning. I find more doors hidden in walls. I find spiral staircases. I go both up and down. It helps me not feel so trapped, helps me to forget the greater world outside that I wish I was in now. Too long was I constricted on islands high above. I love Turk, but to rely on another being to fly me from one place to another was stifling. I want to be able to go with my own two legs, on my own two feet. To run on land that doesn't end.

Running through halls that never seem to end is a close second, I guess. But it reminds me of my dependence on another.

Although…I could leave. If the front gate isn't locked, of course. Which it most likely is.

 _All I need are some small keys. Any small chests around here?_ I wish I could pick locks, circumvent the need for keys of any kind.

The halls aren't changing like they did when I was running from Ghirahim those early days of my capture. Maybe the magic has run out on them, and he hasn't bothered to recharge it. I almost can't believe when I find the corridor leading to the Great Doors that would take me outside the castle. I hesitate in their midst.

No, I decide. No, I can't. They're locked anyway (or do I want him with me on the outside?) and I'll just look like an idiot for trying. And that's what I tell myself. I attest it to my cowardice, because I won't accept any other explanation.

* * *

Catwalks. At least I think that's what they're called. Open rampways built high above the ground floor, hidden in the ceilings that stretch up into forever. I don't know how I stumbled across them. I blame it on my need to scour every nook and cranny.

But here they are.

And here I am.

 _What are they here for?_ I can't help but wonder. I follow the paths the walkways make, intersecting above and over many rooms, sometimes tunneling through from one to another. I'm in the blackness of the dark stone ceiling, looking down on any who might be beneath.

I guess I can see how it'd be useful. But I have no need for eavesdropping or spying today. Looking appreciatively around, however, I decide I'll keep these high-up ramps and tunnels in mind. They help me find the library, after all. And, honestly, that's where I'd wanted to go to begin with.

To the floor to ceiling library that goes on and on, with ramps and balconies and balustrades of its own. The diamond paned skylights welcome in the clouded sun like spotlights throughout a grand stage.

Finding the books I want is a long and arduous process. Next to none are written in the Hylian language I can read. Most are ancient, and others seem downright prehistoric. Seriously. There are stone tablets with what I assume is letters carved into them, worn and discolored from centuries upon centuries.

Is this a library or a museum?

Either way, it's…really cool, actually. I pick and gather what my parchment could possibly decipher, find a place to sit—on the green silken couch Ghirahim had showed me earlier, the one where Bob the Bokoblin had waited after…that incident.

It takes a long time going, but once I'm thoroughly in a tome and know I can decrypt it everything takes flight. I find myself diving into books on demon culture and stories regarding the strange nature of monster comradery. Even when I can't decode a text, there are pictures I can go by, just to guess, to ponder, to wonder at.

It feels like a method of exploring and adventure all its own.

Old ink drawings show me monsters I've never seen in person. One looks like a humanoid rat, its fangs long and dripping with I don't know what—the page is faded, whatever colors there might have been drained to an unvarying, smudged brown. The yellowed pages creak as I carefully turn them. A bi-pedal crocodile creature is featured next, the lines and swirls of ink done in a consecutive but detailed manner. A war axe is gripped in the creature's claws.

There are more I come across, much more. An upright wolfman reminiscent of the Wolfos. An ox-like humanoid depicted with a mighty ball and chain being swung over its head. A batman—a literal bat-like man, with wings spread and empty eyes glaring upward. It makes me think of Batreaux.

Some I know the names of: Keese. Moldorms. Others I do not. Among them is a stegosaurus-like dragon with small wings and large ears. I marvel that they could ever be real. A ridiculous thought, considering where I am, in a world not my own.

Amongst the books I've pulled there is a faded red one. I flip through it, not able to discern much, but one picture captures my interest. A male and female, looking oddly like humans if it weren't for their horns, standing opposite each other. The female is dressed in crisscrossing strips of white fabric, the tail ribbons of which the male holds. I twist my mouth and tilt my head. Did he put her in that makeshift dress or was he taking her out of it? I slide my translating parchment closer, but the words are melded and smudged into the pages. All I can gather is the word 'Binding,' which is weird enough for me.

Placing it aside, I grab for the other books.

I focus on all the information the tomes and texts provide with an ever-increasing tunnel vision. I want to know. I want to see and experience. To discover the mysteries of this world.

Slowly poring over pages upon pages, I learn the demon and monster society is more advanced. They would be, of course. They had more land and resources. Meanwhile the people up in the clouds have…

Well, clouds.

Down here on the surface, the demons are far more than the savages I'd believed them to be. While makers of a violent society, they coveted the best. Even in wisdom. But, from what the pages tell me, prestige, titles, jewels, and land took precedence. Above it all? Power.

I can understand the want of power, in a way. Power is protection. It is a lack of degradation or humiliation. It's security. Yet, as the old saying goes: Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.

 _Is that why they are the way they are?_ I deliberate, fiddling with a corner of a page. It would explain their arrogance and carelessness. For Demise and Ghirahim, doubly so. But then, were they ever without corruption?

I space out, looking at a blurred letters but not really seeing them. Was Ghirahim ever without corruption? Was he ever without his master? Not if he was made by him. Or… I shake my head. Too many unknowns that even my 'visions' couldn't help me with. What do I really know of Ghirahim? How much of him did the game show me and how much am I just guessing at? One thing I do know: Even in my previous life, I admired his devotion to his master. No matter how deranged or to what monster he owed it to. If…if he set his loyalty aside ( _he never, ever will_ ) I think I might…respect him less, in a way. I'd be relieved, no doubt about that, but…

He'd never do it. Ghirahim's loyalty and sense of duty is his strongest trait. Above his sadism. Above his eccentricity. Above his everything else—whatever that may be. I used to marvel over that back in my old life. His one redeeming attribute. His most damming quality as well. A contradiction.

I sigh, trying to refocus on the book resting on my curled legs. Like my feet, my mind wanders.

A shadow slithers in my peripheral. I jerk my head up to find Shii, standing near one of the pillars. Her glare is more exasperation than anger.

"Oh," I say, "I, uh, I'm on the same floor?"

A sigh hisses out her nostrils. "You're not. But I'll let it slide."

"Really? To what do I owe this leniency?" I snigger, though secretly relieved.

Her claws tap against her arm. She snorts. "Nothing, human. Stay out of trouble. There is…something I must do. I'll have others around to watch over you."

I sit up straight. "I'm not a kid that needs babysitting, you know."

For a rare second, Shii's eyes soften. "Perhaps not. Even so…" She turns and walks, and I think she's done, but then so quietly: "Jewels must be protected, child or not."

I sit there dumbfounded long after she disappears between the walls and their mile-high length of literature. Eventually I shrug it off. She was being generous. Or joking. Most likely joking.

The books take me away. I get so wrapped up the light of day bleeds into the red of evening without my notice. It probably would have shifted to dark without me knowing either, if it wasn't for one thing.

A book. With strange drawings and stranger contents. Shuffling through it with my parchment as guide, I get the gist. A cookbook—or something like one. I get interested. Hey, I've taught them some Knowing Realm recipes, they can teach me…

But wait. What is this saying?

My brows scrunch. Ink drawings of humanoids and Bokoblins and other demons. They're chasing the humanoids. The humanoids—which have no claws or fangs or fur to speak of—run with their arms in the air. Like they're being portrayed as frightened.

I turn the page. And the next. The next.

The demons thrust spears into them. Cut them up. A depiction of a…cauldron? A horned creature tosses in an arm from the humanoid—

I slam the book shut.

Reopen it.

My hands shake as I put the pieces together. From the book. And from my memory. Indua said something like, "Are they no more than food and entertainment?" and the way Balak licked his lips—and the spider demoness: " _We haven't had human in such a long time._ "

Rising above them all is a memory from another life. A memory filtered through a silver screen.

" _I'll delight in casting your body into this pit and snuffing out the flame of your life! Your broken body will serve as fine sustenance for the demon king!_ "

I remember the words, trace them over and over in my head. In my mind's eye, I see a face above them. Black and shining with spectral diamonds just beneath otherworldly skin. White eyes glaring and glowing hauntingly. Ghirahim telling Link how he is going to kill him. But then one word sticks out.

 _Sustenance,_ I think. Food. People. They…they…

They ate people. The people they killed.

The realization flies suspended for a moment. Two moments. My brain draws the line from start to finish—a long line. And then it crashes. Explodes.

I shoot up off the sofa. Panic mounts, and against everything I've realized one thing sticks out. I could expect this maybe from stupid Bokoblins, or any other leaning more towards barbarism. But…

Has Ghirahim…?

… _your broken body will serve as fine sustenance…_

Something inside my head snaps.

I don't realize I'm moving—I just move. I'm running, heart pounding and head throbbing with blood, ears singing with the red ocean's shout, my breaths punching in and out. The halls race by, windows with fading light flashing past, the sparks of candles doing the same. I fly down halls that no longer change or move. Before I know it, I'm sprinting straight for the Great Doors. They're locked; they must be, but still I run.

The Great Doors are not unguarded.

Unfamiliar Lizalfos stand in the shadows of the giant sconces, spears in their claws and daggers at their hips. None of them move at the sight of me. I lock eyes with only one. She is dark scaled, her deep amber eyes so vivid they stand out like a cat's eyes shining in the night. Those eyes focus on me, narrowing to mere slits, yet the hate shining through them is undulled by the action.

I fear an attack from her.

But she does nothing.

Neither do the others that glance to her for orders.

I never get to find out if the Great Doors are truly locked or not. The fear and confusion swirling in me are so immense, I…I don't know. I see white. I see a flash that overtakes everything. I hear a thunderous bang, like multiple war canons going off right by my ears. And then I'm outside, the Great Doors swinging, stone chips falling from where the walls were struck by the iron's force.

The doors to the outer walls don't hold up any better. I wish I could say I knew how I did it, but in that moment I don't know anything but _run_ and _get out_.

Black trees with their tangled bare limbs cover me from the ever-stormy sky. The ground is also bare and far from dry, but dense and rocky enough that it isn't muddy. I follow loose trails, vault over large dead logs, slip between jagged boulders. I keep going and going, not wanting to stop because then I'll actually have to think. I don't want to do that just yet.

Exhaustion, however, slams down its iron bars over my lungs and limbs. I can't go any further. And I'm an idiot, such a stupid, stupid idiot because I have nothing. Absolutely nothing. No sword. No dagger. Not even a damn cloak. I ran out of there like a mindless chicken with just the feathers on my back—make that the blue dress. At least I have some form of protection with its enchanted fabric.

I plop down on my rump and lean forward on my hands, heaving for breath. The ewe tremors. The sky is clouded yet it is open, far too open. The tree limbs are broken up here, spilt apart to reach for the sun. But there is no sun. The last vestiges of its light linger in the west as nothing but a light stain against darkening purple and blue. The black thunder clouds in the east rumble a distant warning.

 _Get somewhere_ , says the she-wolf. _Somewhere hidden. Anywhere._

 _Like there_ , I finish for her, my eyes adjusting on a crevice leading into a hallow but narrow portion of rock. There are rocks everywhere, ranging from boulders to pebbles. The fissure I crawl into is made up of a huge hill of them, all held and compressed together by clay and dirt. Nature's way of creating a makeshift cave instead of a proper one. But it'll do. It'll have to.

I crawl all the way to the back, and I don't know how long I stay there. My back is against the rock, my arms resting on the knees I've drawn up. My head hangs as all the thoughts I've been running from come rushing in. Tears burn and drip. I'm an idiot. I've been fraternizing with an enemy with no compassion for those they deem beneath them. They've gladly pillaged, murdered, and eaten humans. And to think it took that last one to shake me, as if the first sins weren't bad enough.

I wanted something to put distance between me and Ghirahim. I got my wish.

…Why do I feel more torn up than ever?

Slowly I shake my head. This isn't even my world. It's not my fight. And I…I didn't know what I'm doing. Never did. All I know is…

 _I'll be good, and I'll love the world like You did, like You do._

Love my enemy. Like my God loved me when I was His enemy. I promised I would.

"But I don't know here the line is," I whisper, voice quaking. "And for everything I do know, there's…there's just too much that I don't."

Dirt slides through the rocks, dusts my hair. It's no answer, at least not one I know the meaning of.

I don't hate Shii. Nor Essil. Or Bob. I don't think any of them would rip me to shreds then feast on the remains. I don't think they'd disrespect my corpse in any way, especially not in such a…grotesquely horrible manner. I don't even think they were around when humans walked the surface.

But Ghirahim was. And did he…?

He treats his enemies with a careless hate. A carelessness that perpetuates shredded bodies left to lay unburied. I can only hope he didn't bother bringing any of that flesh to his lips.

… _your broken body will serve as fine sustenance…_

And then I shut my eyes and see him drag his bloodied blade along his mouth, see the blood of the Wolfos he'd slain dribbling down his chin.

So shortly after that he wrapped me in his cape and carried me cradled to his chest like I was some sort of precious baby.

I slam the heels of my palms into the sides of my head. Why does he treat me so differently?! What is it with me? I didn't ask for any of this! How can he be so cruel and then turn around and be so...so…

More importantly: How can I turn a blind eye?

I can't.

I know who he is—or I think I do.

But I don't want him to die.

Now I've trapped myself. Am I going to let Link kill him or and I going to let him kill Link and—by extension—humanity? Do I even have a say in any of it? Tch, asks the stupid woman who ran out here, where demons abound, with no defense. So, they're right. I'm just a childish wimp.

"I'm an idiot," I mumble, rubbing my eyes, and then my collared neck. It itches.

"Well, I won't argue with you there."

I jerk, sucking in breath. "What're you doing here?"

"Funny question," Ghirahim says, his voice carrying through the narrow little cavern. "I was going to ask you the same."

I strain my vision, can just make out his feet at the mouth of the tunnel. "You eat people?!"

A span of quiet follows. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, you rarely do that. Have you ever eaten a human?"

When he doesn't respond a second time, I repeat the question, enunciated so it echoes like long, individual claps out of the slim tunnel.

Instead of answering he fires out his own questions.

"What is this nonsense?" He nearly laughs. " I come home to find my castle in an upheaval, the front gates blasted open, with my guards out in platoons searching for you. Is this what led to it? Where did you ever conceive of such ridiculous ideas?"

"The library. A book. And before you try to cover it up, it was very clear—there could be no misunderstanding. Now answer my question."

"You will do well to watch your tone, child," he says, all laughter gone. "Come out here. Now. Carefully."

"No!" I shriek. "Not until you tell me—!"

"You little fool, be quiet and settle down! This little hidey-hole you've chosen isn't stable. Come out this instant!"

As he says it, more dirt falls from above me.

I don't care. Accusations and mean words spill from my mouth before my mind can get a read on them. I call him things I wouldn't have even at the beginning of all this. I shout curses to him and his kind. How dare they treat us like cattle. How dare they treat us less than people. I rant and rave and slam my back into the rocky wall behind me, ever the while pebbles and dirt shift and rocks tremble. What I thought was solid and compact turns out to be precariously jumbled boulders disguised by silt and sand.

In the darkness little but his white attire stands out, and scarcely at that. But with the white haze of his outfit I can tell he's kneeled at the mouth of the cave. I hear his breath go in and out slowly, deliberately calming. "No matter what you may think, Kya, you must come out of there." He waits. Then he hisses so it's barely audible, " _Please_."

My hearing's muffled by my breaths. My face burns with tears. This isn't how I wanted to react, but it's like something's taken over me. Panic. Anger. The ewe and wolf acting like they've witnessed their own kind being devoured before their very eyes rather than having read about it in a book.

Because it's true. I know it. I just…need to hear it.

 _Tell me I'm nothing more than food or entertainment. Tell me you haven't had human in such a long time, and what a treat it'll be when you finally run out of use for me._

"Haven't had a vision in a while. I think they've dried up," I say with dead inflection. "Guess you don't need to keep me around anymore. So, where's my destination? The dinner table?"

I hear him snarl. "For the love of the damned gods! What do you want me to say?! That I ate the heart of your ancestor? It was so long ago I can barely remember it! It has no relevance now! You are in no danger, no one will touch you—"

I stopped listening past 'heart,' really. My brain just took a minute to catch up.

I hear myself scream and thrash from far away, like it's someone else. Then there is a downpour of dirt, the quaking of the rocks, and great weights come down on me.

It's black. It's quiet. I can't feel myself.

Then the rumbling starts up again. The rocks roar. The dirt shouts as it's blown off me.

I swear I see a creature of black skin and white eyes. See as it hurls a boulder against the backdrop of the night sky, where speckles of stars peek out from behind the clouds. But it's gone in the blink of an eye, and Ghirahim, white and crimson, stands in its place. He falls on his knees, bends down to me, hands hovering. Eyes wide and wild with an emotion I can't discern. I can't…feel myself.

His shaking gasps ghost over my face. "You stupid little…! Didn't I tell you…!" He gathers me in his arms. So slowly. So carefully. He sweeps a gloved hand through my hair, and it comes away with blood soaked into its whiteness.

The look on his face in that moment…I don't think I could forget it, whether or not I wanted to.

He pulls me to his chest, whispering and murmuring, "Darling, my darling, my sweet…"

The black of night closes in around me. My last thought is of his face, when he pulled his hand away and saw the blood. And I find it so funny…that for one who revels in bloodshed, he suddenly looks so, so scared of it.

* * *

 **A/N: The lovely Mokki-Takashi made yet another fanart of Kya for this story! Thank you, Mokki! The picture is in my deviantart's favorites.**

 **I'm sorry to everyone for being so absent. I blame my immune system. I hope the chapter wasn't too jumbled. Any crituqes I will accept. I make a note of all of them, and while I don't go back and make changes right away, I plan to.**

 **Thank you all again! I don't deserve all those reviews.  
**


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